


The Finding of Arthur Pendragon

by StefoftheHill



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A village worth of OC, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StefoftheHill/pseuds/StefoftheHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur arrives in the sleepy village of Pumpsaint he doesn't intend to stay long, just long enough to write an article on some weird sheep maulings.   Despite a warm welcome from the locals, and his growing attraction to the bar keep, something feels wrong in the Welsh village, and Arthur's curiosity won't let him leave without exposing the root of the problem.  A romantic adventure featuring giant cats, men who roast their own coffee, women who know the rules but don't necessarily follow them, sudden thunderstorms, and the Pumpsaint WI's Annual Jam and Chutney Exhibition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Finding of Arthur Pendragon

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the last minute beta work from Castmeaway on LJ, who caught when I spelled Gwaine fifteen different ways. Art by somnolentlyu on LJ who made me giggle 'till I scared the dog.

 

Some days, mostly those ending in ‘y’, Arthur had to grit his teeth and breathe deeply to stop himself from taking a swing at his photographer’s smarmy face.  On the particularly bad days, when the git was running off at the mouth about his all important British patriotism, Arthur would look at the smudge of mustard on his chin and mentally list the reasons why taking a swing at him was a bad idea.

He’s not really that bad, he’s just a little bit rough. _He’d kick a puppy if it would get him an okay shot._

His dear old mom would be upset to hear.   _His mother is a raving nutcase, worse than her son, and she would still probably hold my jacket._

I have enough problems without getting in trouble with my editor.  

And that last thought was what usually decided it.  Arthur would rock back on his heels and try one of the meditation tricks an ex-girlfriend had taught him, back when she still thought she could turn him into a vegan.   “...And then some tart starts kicking up a fuss and howling like a monkey and I ‘accidently’ spilled my drink on her just to get her out of my face.”   Andy sighed with a regretful air.  Were it anyone else Arthur would call the look thoughtful, but he'd had enough Andy experience not to be fooled.  “Waste of a drink, if you catch my meaning, ‘cuz she wasn't ample in any way.”  

Possibly the worst part was Andy’s casual assumption that Arthur would agree with most anything.  

For the hundredth time, Arthur promised himself that next time they would go by train instead of driving.  That way he could spend most of the trip hiding in the bathroom.

Pumpsaint didn’t give much of a first impression.  It was quiet, something that always struck Arthur when he left the city, but not any more or less quiet than would be appropriate for a Saturday morning in the summer.  A few of the shops were open, a few vans toured the street, a few people walked along at the side of the road.  There was nothing worth noting to differentiate it from a hundred little towns anywhere else.  A small brown sign pointed the way to the Goldmine, roman ruins that were only of interest to tourists and those on school trips.  Nothing worth writing home about, let alone worth sending to Arthur’s temperamental editors.

Luckily, for a given quality of lucky, one of his co-worker’s sources had found out about some interesting maulings, and that co-worker, being busy on a much more glamourous ‘Theft in the British Library’ story, had passed the tip on to Arthur.

“I’d bet this place would be dead on a Saturday night.  How many people would you guess in the area? Can’t be that many, even when you count the farms.”  Recognising that Andy was speaking just to hear himself Arthur didn’t respond.  If all Andy could see was a village lagging behind the times Arthur would have to look harder, if for no other reason than because he took pride in not sharing Andy’s viewpoint about anything.  

But a closer second look didn’t show much more.  From where he stood he could see a tiny graveyard without an accompanying church, a two story shed that was falling down due to fire, or decades of neglect, and the whitewashed building that looked to be the only lodging in sight.  ‘The Dolaucothi Arms,’ read the sign painted on the side of the building. ‘Good Food Real Ales.’

The sunshine, warm on his face in a way he hadn’t noticed in years, was nice though.

The coffee van parked at the side of the road was a bit out of place though.  It was new enough that Arthur didn’t recognise the font used to advertise its designer beans and exclusive mocha espresso, and in comparison to the few vans and old jeeps parked in its vicinity, it was high end.  The smell wafting from it made Arthur’s inner coffee snob sit up and take notice, and it was only years of suppressing that snob through judicious consuming of bad office brew that stopped him from stumbling helplessly towards the truck.  Andy, being the obnoxiously perceptive wanker he was, noticed the van right away.

“Alright Arthur, we can pick up one of your frou frou foamy concoctions before we start work.”

“It’s not necessary, I’ve still got coffee from the last place.”  It hurt Arthur to call that grainy swill coffee.  “But it might be worth talking to the barista, see if they've heard anything interesting.”

Arthur suspected that they might have heard the best gossip because, while in the city most of their customers would have been bankers or business people, the line up here wasn’t the same class.  Three worn and dusty farmers stood in line, and when an arm reached through the window to hand over a paper cup two more joined the queue.  Steady trade in a niche market product, on a Saturday, in the kind of village that might not have wireless internet?  More than enough to warrant Arthur's attention, and if he could get his caffeine fix in the process, all the better.

Andy lit another of his foul little cigarettes, something that he rolled himself to ‘ensure their high quality,’ and Arthur stepped over to the line to indulge his own vice.  The farmers noticed his presence and continued their conversations, half in Welsh and half in English, swapping languages as fast as they swapped topics.  They shuffled forwards and lamented the fire at the Greenhawk supply store, a hand full of sheep diseases that plagued the area, and the local politics which Arthur wasn’t knowledgeable about, but were identical to local politics everywhere.

When the line had crept forward enough Arthur noticed that the forearm passing coffee to the waiting farmers was too broad to belong to a woman, as he had originally assumed.  Instead it belonged to a massive man whose shoulders filled the frame of the window until he stooped down to exchange the coffee for cash.

“Perce, I’ve not got money on me now.  Put it on me tab and Dierdre’ll be by to pay it on Mon.”

“No worries Cam, you’re good for it.”

With that exchange Arthur realised that he would need to change all his mental filters.  Before he could wonder at the kind of village that was so serious about its coffee that people ran tabs, he found himself at the front of the line and under the steady gaze of the man in the truck.  From this close Arthur realised that he was even larger than expected.  Percival, or so his name tag said, leaned forward and rested his forearms on the counter.

“Hey mate, what can I get you?”

“Double shot Americano,” Arthur ordered, and then as Percy pulled the shot, “My name is Arthur Pendragon, I’m a reporter for the Express.  I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about weird sheep maulings?”  Behind him there was a surprised rustling and muttering in Welsh.

The barista frowned down on his machine. “Sheep maulings, sure.  A few are taken every year.  Just wild dogs, nothing special about that.”

“These are accompanied by large footprints, and are more vicious than normal.”

“Sorry mate, nobody’s mentioned anything while they were here.”  Percival’s voice was soft but certain, and with a flick of his wrist he finished off his work.  “One Americano for Mr. Pendragon the reporter.”

On the kind of impulse he usually ignored, Arthur corrected him, “Please, just Arthur.  Mr. Pendragon is my father.”

If it was possible Perce’s expression softened with the informality.  “I’ll keep an ear out, see if there’s anything out there you’d be interested in.  There’s not many around this morning, everybody’s at the Women’s Institute event today, but there’ll be a rush this afternoon.  How long will you be around?”

Arthur’s jaw nearly dropped.  “You’ve served eight people just since I joined the line, and you’re telling me this is slow?  I call bullshit.”

Perce's shrug and quiet smile were natural, if somewhat pleased.  “I think they started coming to help out a local boy, but the owner buys the best stuff and doesn’t charge much mark-up.  If I disappeared they’d all go into caffeine withdrawal.”

“Okay, I’m staying the night so I’ll swing by later and check in.  Thanks for helping, it’s much appreciated.”  

With a nod to Perce, Arthur collected his paper cup off the counter and started back to Andy and the car.  After the first sip Arthur started planning the kidnapping necessary to ensure continued access to the heavenly brew.

Andy nodded after the truncated recap.  “Good call on the coffee.  Bloke seemed to know all the locals.  Might save us time in the end.  Question is, where are we going to fish while we wait for your boy to get back to us?”

“There’s a WI event on today, someone will be willing to gossip there.  Failing that we might pick up another story while we’re here.  Also, please stop calling him ‘my boy’.  We talked for ninety seconds, that doesn’t mean he’s my anything.”

“Come on, your type moves at hyper speed.  Never seen somebody pull as fast as the queers do!”

Arthur sighed.  For all that Andy was a generally despicable type, he’d never shown even the slightest bit of homophobia, a mixed blessing when you considered that he was still rough and occasionally offensive.  

You’d think after a year and a half he’d be used to what Andy considered helpful advice, but Arthur could already see what was coming.

“Come on, Arthur lad, sure it’s small but there must be one bright young lad who’ll fall for your charms in a town like this.  You’ll get a quick fuck, and when is a lay more perfect than knowing that you’ll not have to see ‘em again?  Enjoy your time out of the city.  Love ‘em and leave ‘em, works for me!”  

“I’m not interested, not going to, and most importantly, not having this conversation.”

“Well then, here’s something else for you to focus on.  There’s a gent heading our direction who left the coffee line without buying anything after you started talking to your boy.  And you know the rules, reporter talks to the crazies, photographer chats up the ladies.”

Sure enough a middle aged man in an oversized coat and wellies up to his knees was striding towards him with as determined a look as Arthur had seen in a long time.  He didn’t need to look to know Andy was as good as his word and adding to his collection of photo’s of beautiful young women who might be impressionable enough to fall for his charms.  He sent a short prayer to the newspaper gods that these ones, at least, were legal.

Crazy Hair reached Arthur and started nattering in what was presumably Welsh.  He seemed friendly enough, but friendly wouldn’t cut it if he didn't start speaking English.

“I’m sorry, can you speak in English?  I’m afraid I don’t know any Welsh.”

Crazy Hair seemed to realised the flaw if whatever plan he was enacting, and ran a hand over his head, making his wispy grey hair look even more like a modern art exhibit.  This sort of encounter could have seemed intimidating back in London, but on a warm day with the beautiful backdrop of rural Wales he couldn’t help but feel charmed.

The disheveled man tired speaking slower, and his speech smoothed itself into a broad words whose rolling consonants were definitely recognizable as Welsh.

“Yes, I do appreciate the effort you’re putting in, but I don’t know any Welsh at all.  Do you have someone who can translate for you?”

The man’s face fell even further, letting his wrinkles display his disappointment.  Arthur immediately felt sorry for him, and cast about in his memories for a name slipped into the Welsh.

“I’m sorry, Davi Lewys wasn’t it?  I’ve got to get to work, but I’m sure we’ll come across each other again.”  Arthur pulled out the sum total of his Welsh, the product of years watching the BBC.  “Hwyl fawr.”

The garden show was exactly what one would expect from a WI event.  Grey hair and bright smiles abounded, but with a layer of politics seething beneath the surface that outsiders were not invited to participate in.  Mari’s jam wins an award for the third year in a row, but that’s to be expected because everyone knows that Patricia is her best friend and Patricia has been on the judging panel for the corresponding time.  Or at least that is what Arthur heard while participating in the reporter’s favorite game, ie. eavesdropping.  To his face grannies smiled and praised Mari, even while carefully spelling their names, in the hope that their quote would show up in the paper even if their pickled radish didn’t.

To the idyllic picture of stereotypical Church of England a group of young women arrived in a beat up Range Rover, tugging their shirts into places much lower than the manufacturer intended to display as much cleavage as they had to offer.  Arthur had been expecting them since he’d heard an elderly woman hissing into her mobile that _‘Jeany should get down here right away so she could take a crack at the reporter who had turned up to cover the event.’_  Arthur wasn’t really sure what it was about his personality that begged old women to see him married off, but its presence had been noticeable almost since Arthur had hit puberty.

When the gaggle of young women got close he gave them a small smile and slight bow.  They’d learn soon enough that he wasn’t on the market, and there was no need to make them feel badly.

The smell of cheap cigarettes was all the announcement he needed so Arthur followed his nose to where Andy was cutting between tables of pies. “Don’t know how you do that Arthur boy, don’t look twice at the ladies and they still flock to you,” Andy leered.  “It’s a waste and a damn shame.”

Arthur expected none of the women would approach now that Andy had wandered up.

“Did you finish with the humorously shaped carrots? There might be a story there.”

“Yup.  Though if you ask me they’re not much to write home about.  Not the level of weird the bosses are looking for.”

Arthur shrugged.  “It might be a slow week.  Besides I’ve stopped trying to guess what the editors are thinking.  Let them have everything and sort it out themselves.”

“I talked to one of the neighbours, says that the man we need to talk to is Bryn Howell.  He’s sure that Howell’s just be gone for a day or so, drove to one of the cities to get a vet’s opinion on what killed his sheep.  Mixed opinion as to where he’s gone, probably Aberystwyth, but there’s a to-do at his farm early next week so we know he’ll be back for that.”

“I didn’t plan on staying that long.  If he’s not back tomorrow one of his friends will pass on my number and I can interview him over the phone.  That’ll give you lots of time to get pictures of the area.”

“Awww mate, I wanted shots of the dead sheep.  I’ll have to make my own now.”

“Andy, do NOT butcher some poor farmer’s flock just to get the picture you’re looking for.  If a bunch of locals show up carrying torches and pitchforks I will let them take you without comment.”

Over Andy’s shoulder Arthur could see one of the women, younger and pretty in a generic catalog kind of way, break off from the giggling group and make her way over.  With a flash of intuition, Arthur realized this was going to go badly.

“Hello lads, I heard you’re from out of town.”  

When accompanied by the way she jutted her hip out and ran her eyes over him, it was the kind of blatant come on that Arthur would have disliked even if he was interested in women. It was also the kind of thing that Andy would love.  Unfortunately her body language made it very clear that she was only interested in Arthur’s answer.

“Aye chickey, we’re from out town.”  Andy drawled, and his leer slipped from friendly to something darker. “I wouldn’t mind some ‘hospitality’ if you’re offering.”

The girl seemed to truly notice him for the first time, and Arthur realized just how badly this could go.  She seemed like the sort that could look after herself though.

“I was actually talking to your friend.  You’re not my sort.”

“With that dress I assumed you were everyone’s sort.”

“Andy that is enough!” Arthur barked.  

But the situation was already spiraling out of control.  When their friend had approached the rest of the group had drifted over, close enough to hear a stranger impugn one of their own’s honour.  They began to snipe and clatter their offence, and made enough noise to pull over some older men, one of whom pushed past Arthur to grab at Andy’s arm.  Everyone was shouting now.  Arthur looked around, trying to find a way to resolve the situation without hitting a woman or a geriatric.  The third way presented itself in the form of a fit young man flying into the fray.

“Enough!  That is enough.  You will all calm down or I will drive you to Lamp, and lock you up until you behave like adults!”

The redhead, who Arthur assumed was a constable of some sorts, spoke with the kind of authority that seemed to be instantly respected by everyone, and a begrudging calm seemed to settle most tempers.  Except for Andy’s, who foolishly took a swing at the older man who had grabbed his arm earlier.

The redhead turned out to be called Leon, and as Arthur had suspected he was a constable usually stationed in Lampeter.

“I’m sure he won’t be kept long, but I can smell alcohol on him, and even if he didn’t start the confrontation he did throw the first punch.”  Leon gave him a look which indicated he didn’t really care if Andy was at fault either way.

“He probably could be blamed for starting the fight,” Arthur admitted, forthright where others would be sheepish.  Leon gave a surprised laugh.  “Well in any case I’ll get his side of things then let him cool down for a few hours.  Getting his ass handed to him by a pair of men twice his age was probably enough punishment.”

Pumpsaint’s pub, and there was only one, was on the ground floor of the Dolaucothi Arms, which conveniently had two rooms available when Arthur inquired at the front desk.  It had two rooms available because it had only two rooms.

“Heritage property,” explained the woman who led Arthur up the steep staircase to the third floor.  “My family has been in the area for so long, my father boasts that our family have single handedly kept the business profitable.  I’m Gwen by the way.  It’s nice to have visitors, it’s been unusually quiet this year.  Maybe the weather’s scaring customers off?”  She seemed to realise how mercenary she sounded, and rushed to correct herself.  “Not that you’re only welcome because you pay.  It’s good that you are here regardless of your money.”  Her words began to jumble and trip over each other, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel charmed.  She was so earnest that it was impossible to be offended.

“Yes, I understand.  You like me, and you like my money.”

Gwen blushed, and Arthur was forced to take mercy on her.

“It’s more that she likes you, and likes that you being here means the pub will be running in the black this month,” said a slight, dark haired man as he brushed past them on the way down the stairs.

“Hey, remember the rules.  You are not allowed to speak to customers unless I have approved what you are going to say!”

Arthur laughed against his will.  He suspected he was going to like his short stay in Pumpsaint.

Since there wasn’t a tv in his room Arthur had to abandon his plan to watch a match in peace, and instead grabbed a notebook and headed back downstairs.  In the short time he’d been upstairs enough farmers and shepherds had wandered in to fill the bar with noise, if not actually in space.  It wasn’t the first time Arthur had been surrounded by people who were bigger than their bodies, and having seen two men past their seventieth birthday bring down Andy, a man who participated in bar fights for fun, Arthur suspected that noise and boister were par for the course.  According to Leon the bald man whose well placed kick had ended the fight was 78, and still competed in the rope tug during the parish picnic.

Even from the stairwell the smell from the kitchen was enough to convince Arthur to stay for a bite rather than drive the quarter hour to Lampeter, so he claimed a table along the wall and flipped his notebook open.  It wasn’t much of a defense, but if he looked enthralled in his work there was a chance he would be left alone, something it seemed the older generation of pub goers were willing to respect.  Still the waves of noise crashed over him, and rather than being agitated Arthur felt strangely soothed.  After a long day back in London Arthur knew better than to head to the Hound and Hawk unless he was meeting someone who would act as a intermediary.  A lifetime of experience convinced him that he couldn’t turn off his brain in the presence of strangers, and if he wasn’t careful one of those strangers would say something that rubbed him wrong, and set his teeth on edge.  There was only so much meditation could do for him.

Another ex, a woman from while he was still trying bisexuality to please his father, had laughed and teased him that his white knight was showing.

Gwen waved from across the room before picking up a tray full of empty glasses.  “I’ll be back for your order in just a moment Arthur.  Promise it won’t be long.”  

If he hadn’t been watching Gwen’s exit Arthur wouldn’t have noticed the harried man from the coffee stand enter, fight for a moment to close the door against a sudden wind, and then nearly collapse into a chair with an exaggerated sigh.  The calm didn’t retreat entirely, but Arthur did entertain slipping back up to his room before one of the man’s friends pointed Arthur out.  Then it was too late as the man’s head whipped around and a comically large smile lit up his face.  His exhaustion disappeared and he leapt from his chair, took two steps towards Arthur, then abruptly changed direction and followed Gwen back to what Arthur had assumed was the kitchen.  He emerged a few breaths later hustling the dark haired man from the stairs in front of him, babbling on as fast as he had in the parking lot.

“Hello.  This might break Gwen’s rule about talking to guests, but Davi has asked me to translate.  My name is Merlin.”

It very quickly became clear that Merlin had no intention of translating what Davi was saying.  Rather, he was interpreting, letting the other man ramble before offering Arthur a few sentence recap.  Arthur suspected that Merlin had no shame.

“His parking ticket is in English, not Welsh, so he’s not going to pay it in protest.”

“Isn’t there someone who can read out the ticket to him?”

Davi broke into a flurry of irritated vowel sounds and cut the air with his arms.  The battered ticket from earlier was pulled out of a jacket pocket and thrown on the table with a sound that could have been inarticulate disgust or could have been more Welsh.

Merlin shrugged.  “It’s a principle thing.”

There was a pause when all three men looked at the otherwise innocuous paper.

“Do you want me to tell him to piss off?”  Merlin offered with a cheeky smile, causing Davi to thump his arm good naturedly.

“Actually, no.  This is just the sort of thing my editors love.  Can you ask him what the circumstances were for receiving the ticket.”

Arthur grabbed a pen and started jotting notes, sorry that he had left his computer upstairs.  After a pause he looked up to find both Merlin and Davi gawping at him with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

“It’s this or unusually shaped carrots, and to tell the truth it’s probably both.  Now hop to it, we don’t have all night and I’ve been drooling over whatever Gwen has in the kitchen for longer than is good for me.”

The smile from earlier returned to Merlin’s face, the kind of smile that made a blustery day warm itself, and Arthur returned it without thinking.  It hit Arthur that between Merlin, Gwen, and Leon he had smiled an unnaturally many times for one day.

“Well Davi, looks like you got lucky.  You found the only reporter in Britain who wouldn’t laugh you out the door.”

“Cymru,” Davi corrected.

After Arthur’s professional curiosity was assuaged Davi wandered back to his table, chest puffed out and pride all over his face.  Arthur assumed that his friends would look after that, Pumsaint didn’t seem like the kind of place you could be full of yourself for long, but he ignored listening into their teasing in favor of training all his attention on Merlin.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Thanks, but I can’t.  It doesn’t look good when the staff slacks off, people start wondering if the place will run without them.  Not the kind of rep I want to develop.  Do you want me to grab you something from the kitchen?  Perhaps Gwen’s rosemary chicken that was driving you to distraction earlier?”  Merlin added an impish smile to the offer, and Arthur realised that he’d started tracking Merlin’s smiles before he knew his name.

“Yes please, fast as you can.  Before you go tell me, Davi speaks English, doesn’t he?”

“Yup, didn’t learn Welsh ‘till his daughter came home from school speaking it.”

Again Arthur found himself laughing, making this day a personal record.

The dish that Merlin brought him, combined with the Ale that Gwen had promised was the local favorite, was so good Arthur wondered if his editors would let him submit a review even though it wasn’t his usual beat.  The third fork full was mouth watering enough to risk the wraths of the travel writer and food specialist -- a pair so feared that reporters would rather be shipped off to cover foreign conflicts in malaria infested hell holes than to cross them on a bad day.  This was food worth risking Mary Trentworth’s ire for, and there was nothing else in Arthur’s recent memory that came even close to those criteria.

As he expected, the pub attracted more patrons at a steady pace, men and women who were as easily seduced by the smells coming from the kitchen as Arthur had been.  By the time Merlin stopped by with a second pint nearly every table was filled.

“This is fantastic ale, what’s it called?  I’ll need to track it down when I get back to London.”

“Sorry mate.”  Nothing about Merlin’s posture was apologetic, just a strangely enticing combination of teasing and inviting.  “That one’s made special for us by a local.  You’ll have to come visit on days you want a decent drink.”

The small voice at the back of Arthur’s head suggested that the conversation was getting dangerously close to flirting, and that direction was not necessarily an unwelcome thing.  Merlin was handsome, if you ignored the size of his ears and liked the scrawny type, and friendly.  Receptive to Arthur’s advances, if his gaydar was working.  But in the end the decision came down to the fact that Arthur wasn’t Andy.

The mental debate took place in the space of a breath, so Arthur’s grin back at the wait staff wasn't as heated as it could have been.

“Perhaps I’ll have to kidnap him at the same time I steal your barista.”

Merlin barked a laugh.  “I’m torn between a desire to protect my best source of caffeine, and the morbid curiosity  of watching as someone tried to house Gwaine and Perce.  Actually, you should definitely kidnap the guys.  Yes, the schadenfreude would be worth a few days of instant coffee.”

“Well, if they’re going to be that much trouble, I’ll just have to come back more often than I had planned.  I don’t suppose stealing Gwen at the same time would keep them better behaved?”

The dull roar only got louder as the night continued on.  The average age declined as younger patrons made their way to what Arthur guessed was the only entertainment without driving to Lampeter.  Merlin and Gwen rushed around the room, greeting almost everyone as they arrived.  Eventually Gwen appeared less and less, Arthur assumed she was too busy in the kitchen, while Merlin was left to flit from table to table with increasingly frenetic energy.  Whenever Arthur considered heading back to his room to escape the growing noise Merlin would appear at his elbow with a fresh glass and a quick assurance that it was on the house.  Every so often one of the ladies from the WI event would stop by the table, introduce their husbands or children, and ask how his evening was progressing in a blatant and undisguised attempt to collect better gossip than their friends had managed.  Usually it would put Arthur’s back up, having his privacy intruded in such an unsubtle way.  Here it was easy to shrug off, especially when the worst offender’s husband rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘Yes she’s horrible, but what can you do?  At least you don’t have to live with her.’  Arthur had nearly choked on his fortifying sip of ale.

When the most recent in the parade of older women stopped trying to find out if he was single and had moved on, a man from across the room caught his attention.  Realising that he had been noticed, the man tossed back the last of his drink and began to make his way across the room.

Arthur had to admit that the man heading to his table certainly had swagger.  He was dressed head to toe in black, but his shirt was the sort of designer wear that occasionally inhabited Arthur’s closet, while the shoes were so old and warn that Arthur could see where the sole had separated from the leather.  The overall effect was that he looked strikingly like a pirate.

“Merlin tells me you like my Ale.  Says you’ve been guzzling it like a fish for an hour now.”

Arthur stood, briefly considered that he was no longer the sort of young man who drank large amounts of ale on a regular basis, before he crossed his arms to mirror the other man.  “It’s not your ale if I paid for it.”

The pirate threw back his head and laughed loudly enough to draw attention from a few tables.

“No mate, I mean I made it.  Something of a hobby for me, though some big mouth gossips claim that testing new recipes is my actual hobby.”

Arthur felt foolish and hoped that he wasn’t blushing in equal measure.

“Nah mate, nothing to feel badly about, it’s nice to hear a kind word about all the hard work I put into it.”  The pirate’s grin was infectious enough that Arthur wondered if smiling was an actual prerequisite for living in the village.  “I’m Gwaine.”

“Arthur, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’ve been plotting how to steal you and the barista for the last hour.”  Perhaps he’d had an ale too many, but Arthur hadn’t intended to say that. Gwaine roared and waved over someone from behind Arthur.  Somehow he knew it would be Percival.

“Perce, it seems we’ve got a fan!  He’s thinking about taking us with him back to London.”

Arthur hoped the flush from having a few drinks would cover the blush of embarrassment that was cresting right now.  

“Liked your coffee, did you?”

“I can’t believe I just said that.”

“No, no, nothing wrong with liking a good coffee,” Gwaine interjected.

“Agreed, we work hard to roast those buggers properly.”

Arthur reached to his chair and gestured for the others to sit.

“Sorry ‘bout that, my mouth’s not connected to my brain today.  Join me, I’ll spot the next round.  I was going to find you tomorrow anyways, I didn’t get the chance to get back to the coffee van today.”

“Yeah, I heard you were busy.  Something about saying the wrong thing to Annie, a girl known for her ‘high spirits’ and willingness to kick a man in the clackers for very little provocation.  You’re lucky to be walking straight.”

Arthur sighed.  “Everyone knows about it then?”

“Nope.  Mrs. Thorpe is in Lampeter visiting a cousin in the hospital.  She hasn’t heard yet.”

In short order Arthur was introduced to Lancelot, a man who looked like an underwear model, but was in fact in IT, and Elyan, who lived in the village but worked in the city and was in fact Gwen’s brother.  After the conversation moved past introductions Arthur assumed that the topic would turn to his work, the result of natural curiosity about having an outsider in their midst.  Instead politics became the next topic, with Lance providing context for why Elyan was enraged by what the National Assembly was doing that week.  It was as if Arthur joining the conversation was perfectly normal.  

As the night continued, and he was the recipient of a few more rounds, Arthur noticed his attention slipping away from the table and off to wherever Merlin was working.  He saw Merlin deftly calm a grumpy old man, watched him duck and weave with overfilled trays, and chat with almost every table.  Arthur greatly enjoyed when a group would leave and Merlin would clean each table, whisking the empty glasses away before leaning over to wipe the table down.  It was a very shapely and well formed view.

Arthur’s head whipped back to his own table then he realised the conversation had stopped.  He met three smirking faces and Lance, who looked genuinely pleased with the turn of events.

Gwaine’s smirk was the biggest.  “So, I take it you’ve met our Merlin.  Dear, sweet boy, isn't he.”  It was clearly a statement rather than a question so Arthur chose not to answer it.  Besides, he wasn’t that drunk.

“Aw, come on.  He wouldn’t have a problem with you looking, so I don’t have a problem.  I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“This isn’t a conversation I will be taking part in.  Leave it be.”

“It’s okay mate, I only like birds and I can still see why you’d like Merlin.”  While the expression on Elyan was lighter than Gwaine’s it still had an edge to it, so Arthur couldn’t count him as on his side.

“Look, I’m sure you’re all well intentioned, but I’d appreciate if you’d just keep quiet.  There’s nothing going on with Merlin.”

A hand fell roughly on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Sorry to steal you from your drink Arthur, but I need a word with you.”

Andy was the sort of man who looked more like himself after a fight.  The bruises on his cheek bones looked as natural as glasses looked on some people, and the split lip was almost expected.

“What happened?  I didn’t think you looked that bad when Leon took you into custody.  The fight didn’t last long enough for that and you didn’t end up on the ground.”

“Wasn't at the WI thing.  Had some problems with a bloke in custody, before I made some new friends.  Listen, Arthur, there might be something else going on here.  I was listening to the guards while they were processing me and there’s been a spike in fights in the last nine months.  That’s why that Leon was already in Pumpsaint, they’ve been having so many problems that they adapted their shifts to have someone in the area rather than waiting for a call.”

Arthur blinked.  “But it’s not even a 15 minute drive.”

“I know, but they’re getting called often enough that it was worth having someone on hand.  Was talking to a few of the guys, and there’s more domestics and brawls in Pump than Lamp, even though it’s a tenth of the size.  There was a bad one a couple of months ago.  They found a man South of here at the side of the road, beaten badly, he’d only come out of the coma three weeks ago. The violence is just recent though, they didn’t have a reputation before.”

Arthur sat back and drained the rest of his ale.  There was no doubt that Andy had instincts, he’d certainly had enough experience to recognize when something odd was going on.  But Arthur had instincts too, and they were telling him Andy was holding something back.  That was uncommon enough to catch his attention; usually Andy said whatever was in his head, occasionally to his own detriment.

“Alright, what do you want to do?”

“Just stay for a couple of nights, long enough for us to get in with the locals.  If there’s a rowdy bunch then we’ll know where to look, maybe do a, ‘Breakdown in Order Plagues Small Town Britain’ bit.”

A brief image of Gwen’s face when reading that headline flitted across his imagination.  It looked too much like a kicked puppy for his taste.

“Alright, a few more days.  If anyone asks, we’re staying to wait for Howell to finish the mauling story.”  

Andy gave a satisfied smile and nodded.  “This is going to prove fruitful, the Hors and Hengys will know their mistake.”  Arthur stared at Andy.  Not only did he not sound like himself, it made no sense.  He was about to demand an explanation when Andy started speaking again.  “Now I’m going to get a beer and introduce myself to that table of delightful young women.”  Arthur relaxed.  That sounded more like his colleague.

When Arthur got back to his own table very little had changed; Elyan was moaning about his recent ex-girlfriend and Gwaine was moaning about his empty cup.

“It’s getting late, do you want anything else before Gwen closes the kitchen?” Lance leaned across the table, “And Merlin’s going off shift, so if you're feeling like another ale, order now.”

The cold edge of sobriety had crept in with Andy’s concerns, so Arthur shook his head.  “No, I’ve got to head up and get started.  Some of us have to make large vegetables sound interesting enough for a spot above the fold.”

Lance nodded, and with the sort of ease that suggested he had to do it quite often, leaned out of the way of Gwaine’s flailing arm.

“Well at least say goodbye, it’s only polite.”

“Look, it’s my friend Freya.  Freya, come sit with us and meet the new guy,” Gwaine called, giving purpose to his earlier flailing.

Arthur looked to the door where Gwaine was pointing in time to see a tiny dark haired woman catch Merlin’s hand, then tug him down to whisper in his ear.  Merlin nodded, then stripped off his apron as he trotted back to the kitchen.

“Freya, over here.”  Gwaine was too loud to ignore.  Freya looked over, gave a half wave and a strained smile, and ducked out the door.  “Well that’s odd.  Women usually can’t resist my intense charm and ruggedly handsome face.”

“Ah, is that what you’re telling yourself?  How do you explain Tracy then?  What about Meegan?”

“Oh Elyan, Tracy was a special flower that could only bloom in the wild.  And Meegan slept with me to make her girlfriend jealous.  Totally worth it when her girl decided to return the favour, though.”

Arthur nearly laughed at the intense exasperation on Lance’s face.

“No.  I do not believe you got a shot at Meegan’s girlfriend, the universe isn’t cruel enough to offer you that when I couldn’t even pick up a girl on a Friday night!” Elyan said.

“Not only that, but they let me stay while they made up.”

Percy and Elyan laughed and smacked the table, while Lance rolled his eyes at what was likely a hopeless exaggeration, but Arthur’s eyes were on Merlin, who was pulling on his coat.  Before he could decide if he wanted to catch him before he left, Merlin was out the door.

“Well that was odd.  It’s not like him to leave without saying goodbye.”  A worried crease developed where the corner of Lance’s mouth turned down.  “Sorry Arthur.”

“No, not at all.  I need to be leaving anyways.”  A quick glance around the table confirmed that activity was winding down, so Arthur swallowed the dregs of his ale and collected his note book.  “It was good to meet you gentlemen, thank you for your hospitality.  I hope to see you all at a later time.”

“Well aren’t we posh.  Thank you, your highness,” Gwaine drawled, clapping Arthur’s shoulder to take the sting out of it.

“You’re welcome at my table anytime,” Elyan offered.

The chorus of genuine good wishes continued while Arthur stood up, including Gwaine’s, ‘Sweet dreams princess’.  He was already up the stairs when he realised that he had forgotten to ask if Percival had found anything interesting during his shift. ‘Tomorrow,’ Arthur promised.

The morning was as beautiful as any amateur painter could wish, though it came earlier that Arthur would have liked.  For a moment he considered pulling a pillow over his head and not emerging until noon.  But as tempting as ignoring the first half of the day was, people didn’t interview themselves.  With great reluctance Arthur levered himself out of bed and began his morning ablutions.

Andy was face down at the same table he’d been at when Arthur had last seen him, but a change of clothes assured him Andy hadn’t been up all night.

“Well, you look like a man ready to face the day.”

“Oh sweet sunny lord I don’t know how I got up today.”  Andy propped his head on his hand, which only served to accentuate day old bruises and a hard life’s worth of wrinkles.  “I’d assume one of the broads last night had slipped something in my drink were it not for the fact that I lost count of my glasses.  Did you try the drink?  Boyo that’s a mean beavy, smooth and strong.  Wonder if Mary Trentworth’s been up this way.”

Arthur grabbed the second chair. “I’m sure you’ll live.  Overindulgence is your specialty after all.  I’m going to talk to a some of Howell’s neighbours, what are your plans for the day?”

While Andy sketched out a loose schedule for the day Arthur saw three things happen in short order, and with the same clarity as the fight yesterday, Arthur could see disaster coming without being able to stop it.  Andy reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the foul cigarettes that he delighted in smoking.  Gwen stepped into the dining room, but the sweet warm smile she had been wearing during Arthur’s tour yesterday slid off her face when she saw Andy flip the cig between his hands.  And a pair of men, one who was larger than Percival and the other who looked greasy and sour even in the few seconds Arthur devoted to him, stepped in from the parking lot.

“Excuse me Mr. Laird, I’m afraid you can’t smoke here.”  Gwen offered the polite professional smile that all customer service workers were issued their first week of work.

“Oi, let him smoke if he wants to.  Man’s got a right to a puff in the morning, despite what all the damn politicians say,” the weasley one argued from the door.

“It’s not as though this dump should worry about smoke,” the big one added, managing a sneer on a face that didn’t look smart enough to pull it off.

From where Arthur was sitting he could watch Andy tense up for a moment before turning to see the door.  Andy, who was as politically incorrect as any man, whose weekly diatribes about the evils of Downing St. were a sight to behold, who hung out with members of UKIP, had shown a flash of discomfort before hurriedly hiding it.  This was new and worthy of note, but before Arthur could act on it Andy spoke up.

“Boys, I didn’t expect to see you this fine morning.  What brings you round here?”

“No reason, but if Miss Leodagrance was being inhospitable it’s a good thing we were here.  She wouldn’t want guests to think we were rude, would she.”

When he took a step towards Gwen the threat brought Arthur to his feet.

“Thanks boys, but Arthur and I were just going to dash out to the car.  I’ll catch up with you in five minutes, alright?”

“Miss Leodagrance you were going to lend me that map.”  Any puzzlement in Gwen’s big brown eyes showed for only a moment before she nodded and led Arthur into the kitchen.

“Well, that got very intense very quickly. Have you had trouble with them before? If you like I’ll ask them to leave.”

“No, I’m fine,” Gwen insisted pulling herself together with a speed that Arthur admired. “They’ve never caused real trouble, but they’re don’t come in very often.  It seemed like your friend wanted to speak with them though.”

“Yes, that makes me curious.”

Andy was standing by the open boot of the car when Arthur reached the road, and he nodded briskly.

“Walked around the outside did ya.  Good idea, it’s best if we talk first.”

“Yes Andy,” Arthur nearly hissed.  “It would be a good idea if we talked before the rowdy element in town decide to defend your honour by making the innkeeper, a woman who weighs eight stone soaking wet, into some kind of an example a la 1920’s mob victim.  What are you doing?  Who are those men?!”

“The little guy goes by Lee, but I think that’s a surname.  He was in the tank with me last night, and we were talking about life in Pump, so he offered to show me around.  I haven’t been formally introduced to his friend, but he was talking about a couple of boys named Ward and Hall, so I assume that was one of them.”

“But what were you thinking?  These guys aren’t sources, they’re yobs, and hanging out with them is only going to get you into trouble.  From what Gwen says they’re not popular around town, and if we fall in with their crowd no one is going to talk to us.”

“No Arthur boy, that’s the brill part.  You would stick out like a sore thumb with them, but they treat me like a long lost cousin.   It’ll be no work at all to paint you as the stuck up toff who’s always keeping me down, and you know there’s nothing like bitching about your boss for making new friends.  Not that you’re my boss,” he hastened to add.  “You work your side and I’ll work mine.”

Arthur stopped himself from expressing his frustrations only by remembering what Davi had looked like when he'd run a hand through his hair.  “What are we doing Andy?  We report the news, we don’t make it, and this comes dangerously close to that line.  You’ve already come to police attention once, they might not react well to you causing trouble again.”

“So the police make a fuss, so what.  I won’t give them any reason to detain me, and if they get uppity you can write a, ‘Freedom of the Press Curtailed by Overzealous Coppers’ story.  There’s something here Arthur, I know it!”

“But you don’t have any experience with investigative journalism.”

Arthur knew he’d made a mistake almost as soon as the words had left his mouth.  Ignoring Andy’s sixth sense was ignoring a man whose experience was broad, and whose trade was more subtle than the cut and dry world of journalism.  And worse, for all of Andy’s many faults, he had always treated Arthur like an equal, even when Arthur had been the freshest face in the room.

“Alright, go with them, see what you can find.  But don’t do anything risky, and get out before trouble starts.  You can take the car.”

“Alright Arthur, I’ll be back before you know it with the sort of story that will make your mouth water.”

Andy’s sincere declaration was abruptly finished when the front door to the Dolaucothi Arms thumped open and the goons stomped out.

“Alright Arthur, time to make like a tree and get the fuck out of here.”

Arthur scowled at Andy, sure that Lee at least was watching and would see the expression.  “You’d better be careful Andy, I’ve got a feeling this could turn nasty very quickly.  If you have even the smallest suspicion get out right away.”

“Oi, tosser!” either Ward or Hall shouted.  “Piss off.  

“I might have already played up the stick up the ass boss card last night,” Andy muttered under his breath.  “You might want to leave before I have to explain why you’re hanging out.”

“Great, I always wanted to have a couple of brutish troglodytes to dislike me.”  Arthur stopped himself from expanding on what a bad idea the whole scenario was turning out to be, before Dumb and Slimy were close enough to overhear.  “I’ll talk to you later Laird.”

As he expected, Hall or Ward tried to shove when they passed, but Arthur wasn’t where the brute anticipated him to be, and the resultant stumble looked more like a graceless dance step than the intimidation it was meant to be.  By the time Arthur reached the pub’s door the car carrying Andy and his new friends had started and pulled past onto the road.

There had been a small -- well not really that small -- expectation in Arthur’s head that Gwen would be waiting by the side window with the best view of the car park with a phone in hand, ready to call the police the second things went south.  It had offered a kind of comfort, knowing that if Andy’s new friends had decided to beat the tar out of him that someone had an ambulance close at hand.  Gwen, however, was absent from the common area.  Instead the table he’d been sitting at earlier had been reoccupied by a scruffy individual who was lounging like it was a sport and availing himself of the teapot that had also arrived during Arthur’s absence.

“I do not understand how you can have the same pitiful amount of scruff now as you had last night.”

Gwaine smiled while rubbing a hand over his face in what looked like an attempt to wake up.  “What can I say, it’s a gift.  Can I pour you a cup?” Gwaine squinted at the pot.  “Or something stronger?  You might need a little something more to get you through the day if you want to keep the current pace.”

“What did you hear?”

“Perce and me were dropping a delivery off to the kitchen, and Gwen had already begun stress baking.  She’d started telling us what happened when Lee stuck his head into the kitchen.  At which point Percival decided to encourage them to leave.”  He winced, though Arthur couldn’t tell if it was in response to the story or the light.  “They have a bit of history, those boys do.  Used to order Percival around when they were in school, ‘till he got older and realized that he could just tell them to shove off and walk away.  I think they took it personally.”

“Do you know much else about them?”

“Oh no, it’s your turn now.  Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re asking all the questions and not giving many answers.  Why are those two making trouble, and is it likely to get worse?”  The serious look that had settled on Gwaine’s face was earnest, but seemed foreign for a man who didn’t take much seriously.  “Percival had to go back to the truck, riots start when he doesn’t open on time, but I told Gwen I could keep her company for the morning.  Should I plan on staying longer?”

“Andy met them yesterday while he was in custody, and they offered to show him round.  I don’t expect anything else to happen.”  Arthur sighed and reached for the teapot.  “Is Gwen very upset?”

“Ah, our Gwen is a tough girl, nothing bothers her for long.  I’m going to call Elyan and ask if he can stay in the spare room here tonight, just in case.”  Then the Gwaine from last night was back in full force when he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m mostly here for the baking.  When she’s angry Gwen makes a mean pie.”

“Then I will be sure to be back in time for tea.  Now if you’ll excuse me, Gwen promised me a map and I’m going to collect.”

He was almost to the kitchen door when Gwaine added one more piece of information to the puzzle that was forming in his head.  “Arthur, tell your friend to watch himself.  The boys are easy enough to handle, but they’ve made friends recently with the gentleman who bought the Harper property, and he’s another kettle of fish.  He’s not the sort to take a swing at you, but he’s got a nasty feel to him.”

The Bowen farm was almost exactly what Arthur would have expected, a cluster of buildings close to the road with varying levels of newness, and a transient level of tidy that suggested cleaning only happened when the sheep didn’t need attention, and lucky you that rare event had occurred in the last week. A polite knock on the front led nowhere, so Arthur shouldered his bag and walked around back.

The sound of machinery whirring and sheep being ornery led to a low roofed barn, much older than the house.

“Hello,” Arthur called from the door.

Someone stood up from the middle of a flock of sheep, cursing and muttering under his breath.  

“Come in, come in, don’t mind the fuzzy ones.  They don’t bite everyday, and they’ve had their fill with the delivery man comin’ round this mornin’.  You the reporter bin riling everybody up?”  The warm voice came from a barrel chest and a face that had seen its share of sun.  He waded through the pool of sheep not seeming to notice the head butts aimed at his knees, until he was close enough to offer his hand.

“While riling isn’t my intent it does seem to be a common enough side effect.  I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

“Adam Bowen, and there’s nothing wrong with a little excitement.  I understand Davi Lewys was in a right tizzy after meeting you.  Came back into the pub after he’d had a right blow off, sure his name’s gonna be in the paper now.  Want’s the chance to show his ‘Welsh pride’.  All he talked about all night.”

“Well Mr. Lewys certainly makes an impression, but there’s another story I wanted to talk to you about.  A couple of your neighbours have been complaining about sheep maulings, some sort of animal attacks.  Have you had any problems?”

Adam put a hand over his chin and Arthur was struck by just how large he was.  The hand would have dwarfed the reporter’s own head, and now that Adam was standing straight he was almost a giant.  “A few, yeah, but it’s normal to lose a few sheep.  In fact I’d say there’s less gone than would be normal.”

“I think the bigger concern is the style of attacks.  I understand that one of the sheep was recovered with marks that couldn’t be identified by the local vet.  Mr. Howell has taken it into Cardiff to see if they can identify what kind of predator made it.”

Adam seemed more disturbed now, which struck Arthur as strange.  The farmer looked over his shoulder at the door, and his jaw tightened.  “I didn’t know that a carcass had been recovered.  There’s not wolves in this part, so I’m sure it’s just a dog got loose.  Nothing to be concerned about.”

As a rule Arthur didn’t call men significantly taller than him liars to their faces, but the thought was there.  Adam’s discomfort was written all over his face, and it was a face that wasn’t built for subterfuge.

“Da, I’m back.”

Arthur turned, and silhouetted in the door was the petite dark girl he’d seen at the pub last night.  She was even more fey in this light, the contrast between her hair and skin making her look even paler.  It seemed impossible that that tiny woman could be related to the hulk of a man corralling sheep.

“Arthur Pendragon meet my little one, Freya.  She’s looking for a nice boy who will take care of her father in his old age.”

“Da!  You can’t just say that.”  Freya looked horrified and if possible made herself smaller.  Adam laughed, a great booming noise that made the nearest sheep startle.  

“Sorry, he has terrible manners,” Freya said in a voice so soft Arthur could barely hear her over the sheep.

“If it helps any, my father would be thrilled with the match.  He’s been trying to interest me in women since I came out in sixth form.”  Arthur didn’t know why he said that.  It wasn’t the sort of thing he usually shared with new people.  

The tension in Freya’s shoulders faded and she offered a small smile.

“Oh well my little flower, I’ll find you a good boy yet.”

“Da!!”

Arthur snorted.  Judging by Freya’s reaction this sort of thing must happen often.

“Arthur was just here to ask some questions about Howell.  Apparently he’s had some maulings that the papers are interested in.”

The assertion didn’t sound like something that should be layered with meaning, just a simple statement of fact that Arthur would have no objection to sharing with anyone.  But when Adam said it there was a weight that didn’t seem as innocent as Arthur would have expected it to be.  Considering that it had started life as a silly story about sheep maulings, and was now acting as a cover for Andy’s veteran sixth sense, it concerned him to be attracting such attention.  And it was just dumb sheep, there shouldn’t be anything worth concealing.

“I doubt there’s much of a story to be found in some missing sheep,” Adam suggested.  “But don’t worry Arthur my boy, we’ll find you something worth writing about.  Have you ever seen a man do twenty shots then make a replica of the Leaning Tower of Pizza out of the glasses?  Come out with me and the boys and you can.”

“Da, you only did that once, and if I ever hear of you doing it again I’ll call Aunty Margaret and you’ll get a good talking to.”

“I’m only kidding little dove,” he said, then mouthed ‘I’m not kidding’ back at Arthur.  Arthur almost stifled the laugh that resulted, but the guffaw earned a barely felt punch on the arm courtesy of Freya.

“Don’t encourage him.  He occasionally forgets that he’s an adult now.”

“Lies and slander,” Adam insisted.

“In any case I was just going to make lunch, would you like to stay?”

As if to make the decision for him, Arthur’s stomach rumbled with comically timed hunger.

The road from the Bowen’s farm sloped gently down to the A482, but the day was young, and he had packed a pair of boots, so instead of walking back to the village Arthur headed up the hill.  The grasses in the shallow ditches lining the road -- though really it only just met the qualification for being a road, and was a good rainstorm away from being a glorified sheep track -- grew longer where it met the low field stone walls, and the gentle susurrus from their swaying was a beautiful counterpoint to the birds.  It was the sort of melody that you didn’t get in the city, and until now Arthur would have sworn that it wasn’t the kind of thing he would like.  But on a lazy Sunday afternoon it felt like the perfect distraction to slow his whirling mind.

If Arthur had read the map Gwen had so helpfully provided correctly, which had the added benefit of a set of biro annotations especially inked this morning, then Howell’s Farm would be half again the distance from the village. It was, apparently, set back from the road, and as Gwaine had insisted, nearly invisible behind a shield of trees.

According to the flock of WI patrons he had spoken to last night, Howell hadn’t yet returned, but there was no harm in checking and no way to tell if he’d arrived back sometime during the morning.  The turn off to Howell’s farm was just as he’d been warned; abrupt, lined with dense brush, and without the cheerful signage that was common to the area.  But it was not, as Gwen had led him to believe, unmarked.  Rather there was a tall, thick post, almost too thick for him to reach around with both hands, that had been painted a sickly green and set firmly into the ground quite recently if Arthur was judging the disturbed earth under it correctly.  Two thirds of the way up was a black painted band, followed by a crudely painted black feather, and then capped with more black paint.  It was distinctive, and certainly something that Gwen or Gwaine would have mentioned as a landmark if it had been here long.  According to the map this was the start of Howell’s front drive though, so Arthur shifted the load on his back more securely and started up the drive.

The house was set even further back than he had expected, and was bigger than anticipated.  It was nice, but from what the WI ladies had said Howell had never ‘Found the right girl’, which Arthur took to mean that he lived alone.  When they had said that it had been with an air of deep pity, and only years of experience had stopped the wince from settling from his face.  None of the men he’d met in this village seemed like the sort who would appreciate being pitied, and Howell probably heard it all the time.  So if the house was clean and well cared for -- and it was -- then it was the careful work of one man.

Arthur couldn’t see a car, but he knocked at the front door anyway.

When a long pause had passed without any sound from inside he took a risk and grasped the door frame.  With the sturdy grip he could stand at the edge of the steps and lean far enough to peek in the window into what he assumed was the front room.  It looked cozy, and more importantly empty.  Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected to find but it wasn’t a few stuffed bookshelves and some well-coordinated furniture.  The ladies yesterday had clucked over their chutney and shook their heads sadly as they implied that Howell was some strange loner who lacked all social skills.  While Arthur could admit that good taste and a green thumb weren’t signs of social acuity, there was nothing that marked Howell as the metaphorical Other.

With a sigh Arthur eased himself away from the window and back more firmly on the porch.  If he wanted to provide good cover for Andy’s snooping Arthur knew he had to keep working the mauling story, but with no sign of Howell there weren’t many direct avenues of inquiry.  He could go and interview another set of neighbours, but the Howell farm backed onto the Caeo forrest and it seemed silly to talk to farmers who didn’t share borders.  He could go back to the Bowen farm and dig at Adam until he gave up whatever secret he was hiding, but that was coarse he didn't want to take yet.  He didn’t know Bowen well enough to judge if confronting him would gather results.  Not to mention that alienating him would likely turn the entire town’s opinion against him.

Arthur slowed himself mid stride.  Facts were important, but good reporters knew that story wasn’t the result of facts, it was the visceral details that made readers feel like experts.  In this story the details would drag the readers to a little town in Wales, wrestle them into a life where losing part of a flock was a threat to their livelihoods.  In this story the details would be the sights and sounds that had struck Arthur since he had arrived.  To find those details Arthur would need to go for a walk, to collect the sights and sounds that were unique to the valleys.

Like the Bowen farm the Howell outbuildings were low squat structures close to the house, but without the calamitous noises he assumed the flock was out to pasture.  As he got further from the house there were more signs of heavy sheep inhabitation; tracks and leavings, patches of grass that had been chewed down to stubble, but no sheep themselves.  Arthur didn’t know enough about sheep to guess if that was normal, but made a mental note to ask around and learn if it was.

Twenty minutes into his hike the chirp of his mobile interrupted both Arthur’s planning and the bird song that had gotten louder as he’d come closer to what he had guessed was Caeo Forrest.  A quick check showed a familiar number.

“Peter, good to hear from you.  I assume you’re having trouble with your story and have called to seek my counsel.”

“Fat chance Arthur,” Peter’s American drawl crept along the line, surprisingly clear considering at least one of them was traipsing through the middle of nowhere looking for sheep.  “It will be a very cold day when I come to you for help on a story.  No I just wanted to check if things were going well for you.”

“Ah hun, of course, how could I have thought differently?”

“After all, it was my tip that I was kind enough to pass on.  It’s not like I couldn’t have kept it for myself, attended to it when I had the free time.”

He let the silence hang on the line, years of friendship making him certain that was the best way to get Peter to spill.  He was a man who liked to fill silences.  In the long pause Arthur cursed under his breath when he missed a step, almost falling when the shade made the sheep trail treacherous.

“And I’ve always thought well of you, even when you were just a fresh faced junior being sent to League One games to collect quotes.”

“Hey, I liked that beat!”

“Alright, twist my arm why don’t you.  I’m trying to get those books stolen from the British Library evaluated and I think the dealer I’m talking to is lying through his teeth.  He keeps giving wildly varying prices and then acting surprised when I point out that ten minutes ago his appraisals were doubled.  He’s so smug too, looking down his nose like I’m some sort of vermin.  I just can’t stand him!  You want to know what he called me when he thought I was out of earshot?  A Numpty, that’s what he called me!”  

Arthur suspected that if he weren't interrupted Peter’s rant would escalate, and would end only when his friend had thrown his phone at the nearest building.  Technology tended to have a very short life in Peter’s hands.

“What a git.  Let me send you the name of an old classmate of mine, much more likely to give you good numbers, and if you mentioned the name of his shop in your story you’d have a friend for life.  Speaking of, how is the glamorous life of a senior crime reporter?”

“I’m filing a new story every eight hours, the bosses love me.  This will keep me in ramen noodles for months.”  The gentle ribb that Arthur didn’t need the money he made, that he had generations of his family’s mostly clever investments to fall back on, didn’t sting the way it had when he had first started working in the bullpen.  “Anyways, I wasn’t kidding about checking up on you.  The buddy who sent me the Pumpsaint link has been bugging me about it every forty five minutes.  I don’t think he understands that shit like this takes time.”

“Well, it is certainly an interesting little village, I’ll give you that.  It’s taking some prodding to get to this sheep story, but I’ve found a few other little ones to tide me over.  And the food, God Peter, the food alone is worth the drive.”

Arthur finally exited the corpse of trees he’d been making his way through and suddenly understood he was in trouble.

He had been so caught up in his thoughts, then in his conversation, that he had mistakenly interpreted the growing gloom as the result of shade from the trees.  Now he saw that the darkness was due to the angry billowing storm clouds that were blocking the sun.  There was a flash in the corner of his eye that Arthur attributed to lightning, though the bolt must have struck somewhere behind him, then several long seconds before the sonic boom hit him.

“Shit Arthur what was that?!”

Peter’s voice sounded further away, and Arthur realised that he’d let his mobile fall from his ear.  “I don’t suppose you know what to do in a lightning storm?”  From his vantage point Arthur had a clear view of the valley, and could see that cutting across the fields to the road would be much quicker than backtracking to Howell Farm.  It dawned on him that his perfect vantage meant that he was the tallest object in the area, so he scrambled off the sheep path and headed downhill.

“You get inside, that’s what you do in a lightning storm!  Go!”

“Thank you for that excellent advice, you always were one to state the obvious.  I’m going to hang up now.”  Arthur shoved the phone in his pocket and tried to control his momentum as for all intents and purposes he fell down the hill.  Another flash followed by another crack, and then he was too busy skidding and sliding to count the peals that echoed off the hills.  

If he had been safe, Arthur would have loved watching the lightning show that he was now treated to, bolt after bolt hitting the ground in quick succession, the thunder claps overlapping until they were indistinguishable from each other.  He thanked some deity or universal force that it was a dry storm, then cursed when across the valley sheets of rain began to fall.  

With great effort Arthur stopped himself and looked around.  Getting down to the road would only be useful if there was someone driving who would stop, but there was no way he could make it in the ninety seconds or so he had before the rain hit.  He didn’t know the land well enough to say for sure, but it was a safe bet that when wet the hillside would become too slippery to manage, and he didn’t want to test his ability to stay on his feet.  The best choice was to find any shelter he could and brave out the storm.  

With a course of action fixed in his head Arthur began to search.  Trees were out as potential shelter, he remembered being told that they were dangerous during lightning storms, but if he could find a flat area that wasn’t likely to wash away when the rain hit he could get the jacket from his bag and hopefully stay mostly dry.  Where he had stopped running looked like a well traveled path, so Arthur stayed on it and started heading South.  An unexpected clap of thunder -- there had been no lightning he had seen -- caused him to misstep and almost lose his footing, and Arthur sucked in a breath then froze.  

From his new vantage point he saw the glint of bestial eyes.

The thudding of his heart was audible in his head even over the thunder, and Arthur wondered what he could do to defend himself.  Another lightning bolt lit the ground for a moment, and he relaxed.

“If you don’t tell anyone about this I’ll give you my apple.”

“Baaaa,” replied the lamb, huddling under a rock outcropping.

The first drops of rain struck the exposed skin of Arthur’s hand, spurring him towards the rock wall.  It was too short to stand under, and not very deep, but options were scarce, and contrary to his actions moments ago he wasn’t afraid of sheep.  Now that he was safe, if not very comfortable sitting on the ground, he could hear how fast his heart was pounding.  Outside rain was pelting down with enough force to bounce after it struck, but the lightning at least was slowing.

Arthur and his new friend, who had decided this wasn’t terribly interesting and was attempting to sleep, hadn’t been sitting in their overhang for long before movement along the path caught his attention.  A sopping wet Merlin was jogging slowly along the path, one hand held up to shield his eyes, the other stretched out for balance.

“Merlin, over here!”

Merlin stumbled in surprise, but managed to keep his feet and avoid adding mud to his sodden outfit.  He seemed to recognise Arthur when he was only a few meters away.

“Push the lamb out of the way and join me where it’s dry.”

“I’ve got a better plan.  Just around the corner there’s a shepherd’s hut, that’s where I was headed.  If you sprint you won’t get too wet,” the barman offered.

The decision was made for him when Merlin grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet and out in the rain.  Merlin whooped and took off down the path again, and Arthur had no choice but to follow.

There was the distinctive sound of clattering rock when Merlin shrugged the heavy sack off and dropped it on the cold floor.  He rubbed at the muscle with his off hand, and gave a few half hearted shoulder rolls to relieve the tension.

“So are you some sort of rock hound?  A closet geologist?  An amateur fan of metamorphic stone?”

“Ha ha, very funny.  No wonder you won E over so quickly with a sense of humor that sharp.”  Merlin pulled both hands over his head in a final stretch, and Arthur very carefully didn’t look to see if his shirt rode up enough to show a treasure trail.  “Actually I’m doing a favour for the museum.  There’s a local legend about a giant cat in the area, our own version of the beast of Bodmin.  There were some Roman era paintings found near the gold mine, and the old men in the area have been spotting it on the way home from the pub since time immemorial, so the little kids have taken to leaving stone paintings of The Kitty in the hills.  The museum collects the best ones and puts them on display.  I was just bringing back a load when the storm hit.”

Arthur eyed the sack dubiously.  “That’s more than just a few stones.  Carrying that much weight can’t be good for you.”

“What can I say, our youth have been more productive lately.”

Merlin gave a full body shudder that Arthur identified as inappropriately sexy.

“You must be freezing. Get out of your coat and you can borrow mine.”

Once again Arthur reminded himself of the importance of being a gentleman. A wet body might make him cling to his self-control only by the tips of his fingers, but as long as he had any control whatsoever he wasn’t going to order Merlin to strip.

Merlin studied his face for a long moment, before breaking out in another grin and struggling to pull his jumper over his head.  The collar got stuck, possibly on those ridiculous ears, giving Arthur a few extra seconds.  Those seconds were vital to schooling his features and removing the lust that no doubt covered his face.  The amount of wiggling that taking off a sweater involved probably helped, and Arthur let out a bark of laughter.

“Oi, it’s not nice to laugh at someone you’ve just met,” said Merlin, having won his fight with the jumper.

“No it’s not,” Arthur smiled back. “And I generally try not to laugh at the mentally feeble.”

Merlin snorted and threw the wet shirt in his hands at Arthur’s head.

The jacket he pulled from his bag was a waterproof Gore-Tex shell with a soft inner lining.  His thumb brushed the plush lining and Arthur was struck by the knowledge that Merlin would feel that softness.  It would rest on his shoulders, rub at his wrists and touch his belly in a way that Arthur wished he could do with his hands.

“Thanks Mate, it’s been awhile since I’ve been caught out in a storm. This weather’s not exactly seasonal, you know.”

“That’s fine, not a problem at all, feel free to steal my clothing anytime <i>Merlin</i>.”

Arthur wished he had some way to either turn back time and shut himself up, or cause a serious enough head injury that he could forget the last ten seconds.  Was this what Gwen felt whenever she talked to new people?

The pause stretched, and Arthur desperately reached for something else to say that wouldn’t make him look like more of an idiot.  Unfortunately his brain, usually a bastion of dry wit for any embarrassing situation, was giving him the proverbial blue screen of death.

Merlin broke the tension by bursting into laughter.

“I can’t believe it, that’s your line you’re going with.  I talked to Perce when I picked up this morning’s coffee, and he’d led me to believe you were some sort of smooth talking Lothario, but this doesn’t live up to the hype at all.  You’ve got all the boys fooled if they believe you’re a gay version of Gwaine, breaking hearts across the country.”

“That wasn’t a seduction, I’m much better when I’m seducing someone,” Arthur protested, trying to gather some dignity in the face of a still giggling Merlin.  “No really, I’m very good when I’m actually trying.”

“Of course you are.”

Then Arthur stopped breathing because Merlin had stepped into his personal space. “Thank you Prince Valiant for keeping me warm against the rain.”

And then Merlin kissed him.

It was a new experience.  Usually Arthur did the kissing, and he liked it that way.  He liked seeing his opening, grabbing his partner and guiding them in until he could feel their breath on his lips, and then setting the pace while they melted against him.  But his brain was still registering the error screen from the earlier, and it wasn’t until Merlin started to pull away that sense returned and he leaned forward to kiss him back.

Merlin allowed it for a moment, before he pulled away again.  “Careful Valliant, you lent me a jacket, not saved me from a burning tower.  That doesn’t get you more than a kiss.”

“Ahh, I mean, I wasn’t trying for anything improper.”  Arthur tried to find his equilibrium, but it was difficult when so little of his blood was left in his head.  “Besides, you were the one who kissed me.  If anyone gets to complain about his virtue being sullied it’s me.”

“Alright then, I’ll respect your boundaries and attempt to restore your maidenly virtue by offering to walk you home.  You’re heading back to the village?”

“Yes, but not until the rain stops.  You have my jacket and I didn’t think to bring an umbrella.”

Merlin smiled, and gestured to the door while making his way to where he had left his bag.  “The one nice thing you can say about our freakishly unusual weather patterns, they hit hard and pass quickly.

Now that he was looking for it, Arthur could see the difference in the quality of light spilling in where they had left the door open.  Merlin passed back the bag that this morning had contained a light lunch and the jacket that would no doubt drive Arthur to distraction whenever he looked at it in the future.  It was lighter now, only his note book and the apple that he hadn’t convinced himself to eat still in it, so it only made sense to offer.

“I noticed you were carrying quite a few rocks earlier, did you want to put a few in my bag?”  Merlin raised an eyebrow, and Arthur was nearly caught with foot-in-mouth-disease for the second time in as many minutes.  “Not that you couldn’t do it yourself, I mean you obviously carried them this far, I just thought it would be easier to split them up into two sacks.”

Merlin’s face softened, and Arthur could almost call his look fond, when he passed over a large chunk of sandstone and several brightly painted smaller stones.  Arthur suspected Merlin’s bag still contained the majority of the weight, but he was content knowing he was helping at all.  In quick order they exited the hut and were back in a sunny afternoon.  Aside from the slick mud left behind after the sudden deluge, there was no sign of the storm, not a cloud in the sky to indicate the light show that he had been watching less than an hour ago.

“You weren’t kidding when you said this would pass quickly.  How many storms do you get in a year?”

Merlin shrugged, and for a moment he looked worried.  “Usually one or two, but we’ve had three a week for the last seven weeks.  There’ve been a few small fires, but the rain has put them out before any real damage could be done.  My friend, Freya, lost an outbuilding to fire, but thankfully nothing important was lost and the sheep got out on their own.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting your friend Freya this morning.”

“Really?  I hadn’t heard that yet.”

“Well it was only a few hours ago, and as good as your rumor mill is I’m sure it isn’t that good.”

“No, it’s usually that good,” Merlin insisted digging through his pocket for his mobile.  “And not to make your head swell, but there isn’t much news in a place like this, which makes you and your friend the biggest story around.  I should have heard about your meeting from at least three different sources by now.  That’s strange, I’m not getting reception.”

When Arthur retrieved his own phone it also showed a distinct lack of signal strength.  “Me neither.  Do you usually get reception when you’re out in the hills?”

“Yeah, we’ve had a tower in the area for almost five years.  We even get reception when we’re in the first bit of the goldmines.”

“Alright then, let’s head back to the village and see what’s going on.”

While he’d known he had been walking uphill for most of his morning, he couldn’t remember walking uphill quite this much on his way out of the village.  It was mostly downhill on the way back, and while Arthur was confident he could have found his own way eventually, he was glad to be following Merlin.  He was steady and sure footed, taking them down routes that didn’t even look like real paths for the first twenty meters.  

When there was a gentle decline and they didn’t have to focus as much on their footing, they would chat softly and walk closer than new friends usually would.  Arthur justified it to himself by wondering at how different the landscape was, the differences between the bustling city and uninhabited country  striking to him.  Merlin laughed, a sound that Arthur would like more if it weren’t directed at him, grabbed his elbow with a casual ease that Arthur wished he could replicate, and promised not to abandon him to the feral sheep.  

A few times the ground dropped off into a steep slope, but instead of finding another way down Merlin whooped and threw himself down.  The man was certainly crazy, but Arthur added himself to the list of crazies when he followed.  After skidding down the thankfully short distance Merlin almost bent over double laughing, and it took a moment for him to collect himself.  He must have seen the incredulous look Arthur knew was on his face, because when he looked over Merlin snorted and only just stopped himself from starting again.

“Laugh all you want, but there’s something insane about jumping off a cliff when you can’t see the bottom.”

“Oh come on Clotpole that wasn’t a cliff. Barely more than a bluff,” Merlin teased.  “Besides, I got you home didn’t I.”  Merlin gestured and Arthur realised that in focusing on his guide he had completely missed the village.  That seemed impossible considering how close they had come, and now that Arthur’s attention wasn’t focused on Merlin he could hear it too.

“Alright, I’ll admit that you aren’t totally useless as a guide.  Now, I’m desperately in need of some of Percival’s coffee.  Do you know where he’ll be parked?”

In an act of heavenly grace, and proof of divine love, Arthur’s coffee was even better today than yesterday.

“I just don’t understand how you do it, no one should be able to make a drink this good when they’re confined to a kitchen that’s small enough to fit in a van,” Arthur insisted.  “Please at least consider franchising your operation.  London needs you.”

“Has anyone suggested that you might be a little too dependent on caffeine?  I mean, all the folks around here appreciate me, but you’ve got hooked really fast.”

Arthur could see the roof of the Dolaucothi Arms and was using it to navigate through the village.  Seeing as how Pumpsaint was three roads and a post office, navigation wasn’t difficult at the worst of times.  Finding a point to navigate by had been useful on some other jobs though, and a lifetime of listening to his father had taught him the importance of keep up with good habits.  So the inn marked the western edge of the village and the church that was invisible from the highway was the eastern.  A village the size of Pump didn’t need more than two cardinal points.

“Arthur!”

Lancelot jogged to catch up, juggling his own cup of Percival’s coffee.  “I thought that was you.  Glad to see that you survived your hangover.  Elyan wasn’t so lucky.”

“For future reference, friends don’t let friends write-articles-meant-to-be-read-by-other-people drunk.”

Lance smiled.  “That bad?”

“Oh yes.”

“I trust today was better?”

“Much, though after this morning I have to question my co-workers sense of self preservation.  You heard?”

“Yes, it’s the talk of the town.”

“But nothing has happened since then?  Gwen’s alright?”

Lancelot shook his head.  “Don’t worry about Gwen, she’s tougher than she looks.  People here just see the shy little girl that she was growing up and they forget that she <i>has</i> grown up.  That’s the problem with small towns, everyone’s known you forever and there’s not a lot of change.”

Arthur relaxed, a bit surprised by how much tension he had been carrying in his concern for his new friends, and smiled to himself.  “You seem quite stalwart in Gwen’s defense.  Is there something else I should know?”

“No, there’s nothing going on between Gwen and I.”  Arthur hoped that the look on his face expressed just how much he didn’t believe that statement.  “Really, we’re just friends.”  A raised eyebrow indicated how little that changed his opinion.  “Alright, I get enough of this from the boys, I don’t need to hear it from you.  Let me blatantly change the subject by asking how your story is coming along.”

“Well Bryn Howell’s not back in the village so I haven’t gotten far with those inquiries, but we’ve come to something of a twist.  Merlin mentioned that there’s a local legend of a big cat, so I’m going to link that into the story.  It’s the sort of thing my editors love.”

Arthur realized he had made a misstep when the soft smile Lancelot usually wore shifted into something with a bit of an edge.

“So, you met up with Merlin did you?  Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I do believe we’ve already left this topic of conversation, Mr. Leodegrance.  Do you really want to dredge it back up?”

Lance flushed at the use of Gwen’s family name, and threw his hands up in a mock defensive position.  “Alright, I’m in a glass house, I won’t go there.  I’m just curious that I didn’t hear about this before now.”

“Really, the gossip in this town is beyond belief.”

Lancelot laughed, clear and uninhibited, while they made the last turn and found themselves in front of the Dolaucothi Arms Inn.

“Well someone’s in a good mood,” Gwaine called from where he slouched next to the front door.

“Did you stay here all day?” Arthur asked.

“Nagh, Gwen decided to sweep out the crawl space and I decided to escape before she put me to work.  I’m just staying out here until she and Merlin are done with setup for tonight.”

“I’ve known you for years and I’m still surprised by how lazy you are.”

“You really shouldn’t be.”

As Gwaine had promised, the scent of fresh baking was almost overwhelming once guests got through the front doors of the Arms.  There was cinnamon and fruit in the air, and without even seeing the kitchen’s offerings Arthur knew that it would be prize winning.  Even if he had to drive her himself Arthur was going to get Mary Trentworth to Pumpsaint; it was almost a civic duty to expose new people to Gwen’s food.

“Well our star reporter is back.  Did you have a productive day?” Gwen shadowed him to the table that he’d occupied last night, and seemed genuinely interested in his rambles.  The strangest thought struck Arthur.  Usually his friends would ask the socially expected questions then visibly drift off unless the topic was a particularly grisly murder.  Most didn’t realise how ultimately boring the process of reporting was to the vast majority of people; Arthur would wager that anyone who wasn’t in the business themselves would find the craft tedious.  Asking a reporter about reporting was like asking a fly fisher about their hobby; you did it to be polite, but you steered the conversation to another topic as quickly as possible.

But Gwen didn’t look bored.  Neither had Lancelot on the way back to the pub, or Merlin while he tugged Arthur along and directed him down sheep paths that were invisible for the first ten meters.  The conversation last night hadn’t settled on the topic of anyone’s work, except for a diversion about Elyan’s sharp as a tack manager who was always catching him just as he started to slack off, but Arthur couldn’t picture Percival or Elyan being anything but interested.  If Gwaine had felt his attention wandering he would have said something, rather than taking the polite route of nodding and changing the subject.  

“And what about you?” Arthur asked, trying to cover the disorientation that came with his revelation.  “Did anything interesting happen at the Arms today?”

There was a lack of subterfuge in Pumpsaint, from the old man subtly complaining about his gossiping wife to Gwen’s earnest attention now.  Being so straightforward should have been a weakness, something that was taken advantage of, but here it was embraced.

A lifetime of artifice had not prepared him for this village.

“And then Lancelot found you and delivered you back to my dining room like the noble knight he is, so you could both eat my muffins.”  There was a long pause, during which Arthur looked over Gwen’s shoulder and made eye contact with Lancelot and Gwaine.  Both had a look that asked if they had just heard the innuendo they thought they had heard.  Merlin, who had entered the room just as Gwen had finished his story with her offer of baked goods, nearly dropped the tray of cutlery he was carrying as he began barking with laughter.  Gwen’s hand whipped up to cover her mouth.  “Oh no, not like that.  I was just felt like baking earlier and I tried a new recipe and it’s quite good and I thought you might like it.”

Arthur placed a hand on either of her arms, both to calm her and interrupt her frazzled run on sentence.  “It’s alright Gwen.  We know.”

“Besides, Arthur isn’t interested in muffins,” Gwaine offered from where he was wiping the tears of laughter off his face.  “Lance, however is both an expert on muffins and currently without a dedicated personal baker.”

Gwen blushed deeper at the insinuation, but offered Lancelot a small smile before retreating to the kitchen.  Lance looked gobstruck as he watched her go.

“I cannot believe you actually said that.”

“Oh come on, we weren’t going to watch you pine away forever,” Gwaine said, as he pulled out a chair at Arthur’s table over for Lance and dragged one from a neighbouring table for himself.  “And you have to admit it went well.  Even Mr. King of Denial has to accept that she’s thought about it before.”

Lance dropped into the offered chair and buried his face in his hands.  “I cannot believe you actually said that,” he repeated.

“Well he did still owe you one from the remark you made to Seryna Kelly’s mother,” a still recovering Merlin said while he dropped rolls of cutlery on the table.  “Now gentlemen, is there anything I can get you?”

The crowd attracted to The Arms on a Sunday night was smaller, but no less boisterous than the day before.  They skewed slightly older though, and there was more movement between tables as the evening's socialising took place.  One of the busybodies from the WI event evicted Gwaine from his seat so she could introduce Arthur to her grand nephew, a nice young man who was almost a decade younger than his taste, and blushing furiously at ‘Aunties’ forwardness.  Gwaine took the eviction with good humor and returned shortly with a glass of sherry for Aunty, and the news the Glynis had just gotten back to town and was holding court at another table.  After she had vacated her stolen seat, and her nephew had slipped off to join his friends, Gwaine retook his spot.

 

“Poor boy, didn’t realise that coming out wouldn’t stop his Nan and Aunties from meddling in his love life,” Lancelot said while raising an arm to wave over Percival and Elyan.  “Speaking of meddling, Gwaine, did you know that Arthur met our friend Merlin today while out walking?  I imagine it would have been very romantic.”

“Your village has a gossip problem.”

Gwaine rested his chin on his hand and drawled with a dramatic flair, “Really, I hadn’t heard that.  Well this could be a scandal, do you know any other details?”

“Speaking of the local gossip problem, my mobile wasn’t getting reception this afternoon.”  Arthur fished through his pocket for the offending tech and noted the continuing lack of signal strength.  “And it’s still down now.  Have either of you heard anything about that?”

“Yeah mate,” Elyan answered, dropping into the chair next to Arthur, “It’s all anyone’s talking about.  Lightning took out the tower this afternoon.  They have a team over from Lamp trying to fix it, but there’s some parts they can’t get so they’re not sure when it’ll be back up.  How could you have missed that?”

“We’ve been distracted by young love,” Gwaine offered.  Lancelot kicked his chair, and Arthur took advantage of the plate Merlin had dropped off earlier to stuff a pastry in Gwaine’s mouth.

“I’m sure we’ll get the story later,” Elyan said to Percival, who nodded and grinned.

The conversation was quickly steered to safer topics, football and music, and after a bowl of what the menu called ‘Shepherd’s Soup’ -- yet another meal for the records -- Perce suggested darts.  After a first round score of 150 Arthur was glad he’d kept himself to one drink.  The shock on his new friend’s faces when he handily beat Gwaine was priceless.  With as much humility as he could manage he accepted the next challenge, this time from the local champion.

The evening took an even more interesting turn when Merlin stumbled out of the kitchens with his typical lack of grace.  Arthur started to wave him over, planning a particularly impressive shot, but stopped when Merlin abandoned the tray of drinks he was carrying at an empty table and frantically dug through his pockets.

Almost before the door stopped swinging it opened again, this time admitting Gwen who had been absent for the last hour.  The little reporter in the back of Arthur’s head noted that she had taken off her typical apron and let down the hair that he had only ever seen pinned back.  Merlin was smiling and holding up his phone by the time she had reached the table where Lance was helping a soundly defeated Gwaine drown his sorrows.

“Lancelot, you are kind, and honourable, and a gentleman.  I would very much like to go on a date with you sometime.”

Arthur was glad Merlin was recording the exchange, because he was going to need to consult the record to tell who was more surprised; Lancelot, who had thought his romantic escapades were finished for the night after the earlier teasing, or Gwen, who looked surprised at the words coming from her own mouth.  A quick glance to the table of young women who had easily lured Elyan away two drinks ago added his slightly green around the gills expression to the running.  The dull roar of the pub’s normal operation had dimmed almost to the point of silence, with only the sounds of shifting bodies in old seats still audible.

With the strange silence it seemed to dawn on Gwen that her nerves had raised her voice enough to attract everyone’s attention.  The blush that she had been fighting took over, and one hand rose to cover her mouth. Arthur was just mentally preparing himself to intervene, when he was saved the effort by Lancelot’s face softening.

“Perhaps we can take this outside?” Lancelot offered, as he gently took her hand.  There was a collective exhale from the room at large, mostly relief, but with a few women giving a romantic sigh, then the noise returned as the couple left.  Three women old enough to be grandmothers unabashedly clustered by an open window to eavesdrop before being hustled off.  Arthur could hear their cackling down the hall as he made his way to where Merlin was organising his tray.

“Well, I don’t think poor Lance was expecting that.”

Merlin smiled and leaned in conspiratorially.  “She was standing in the kitchen psyching herself up by repeating, ‘I am a modern woman.  I am not shackled by societal beliefs,’ for twenty minutes while she stirred the stew.  I made sure to get out here so I could record it, but it was a close thing.  Gwen’s bestie would have kicked herself to miss it.”

“Seriously, your village has a gossip problem.”

After only one drink Arthur felt confident in his ability to write, or at least set down an outline, but the question became which story he should focus on.  The slice of life piece from the jam show had gotten off to a rocky start, and after last night's indulgence everything would need to be scrapped and restarted.  Davi’s parking woes had a solid framework, but it’s tone was being too obstinate.  There was still research to be done on The Beast of the mines, but after three days of being directionless actually having the shape of a story made Arthur’s fingers itch.  

When Arthur surfaced from his writer’s daze it was mostly due to the cramp forming in the left side of his neck.  While the chair in his room certainly expressed the historical charm that the inn tried to embody, it wasn’t fit for extended human use, so he swung one arm over his head to stretch while he made his way downstairs.

The dining room was empty but not dark, and there were sounds coming from the kitchen, so while it was clear that it was late it was probably earlier than it felt.  The air outside was cool, and smelled wet even if it hadn’t rained since the mid afternoon deluge.  Arthur made a mental note to collect his coat from Merlin come the morning before he crossed the highway.  

Most of the houses still had lights on, and the town’s love of gossip was reflected in the general lack of curtains.  The openness, combined with the charm Arthur would have called fabricated in almost any other setting, had the effect of making every house a dollhouse, complete with the occasional doll passing the window.

Nine houses down the street ended and turned into a gravel path, which a white and red sign proclaimed led to The Happy Grove Stables and trailhead.  No doubt a beautiful walk, but not the sort of thing to be tried in the dark, so Arthur sighed and turned back.

And came face to face with Merlin.

“Oi, it’s not nice to be following a bloke you’ve just met around at night.  It gives the wrong impression.”  Merlin managed to keep a straight face only long enough for Arthur’s jaw to drop in horror before he cracked up.  “Seriously, between Gwen and Lance being adorable, and you being adorably gullible, this has been one of the best nights in months.”

“I can’t have been following you because you were behind me, kittens are adorable and since I’m not a kitten I can’t be adorable, and what are you doing here?”

“I live in the house with the blue door,” Merlin said, gesturing towards a house with the bluest door Arthur had ever seen.  “I saw you as I was getting home and I thought I’d say hi.  So, hi.”

The stress that had collected in his jaw began to dissipate, and Arthur’s heart rate lowered to a more manageable level.  “The sentiment is appreciated, but don’t call me adorable again.  I have reputation to maintain.”

“Sure, no problem.  Besides anyone who had seen your growly face would know better than to accuse you of a soft side.”

“Merlin!” Arthur considered a quick smack in the shoulder, then dismissed it as something for Gwaine and not the kind of behaviour Merlin would appreciate.

The blood rushed out of Merlin’s face.  Arthur took an instinctive step towards him, wondering if his briefly violent thoughts had somehow telegraphed across his face.  But surely Merlin would take it in the playful manner in whch he'd intended…  Arthur’s swiftly cycling thoughts were banished from his mind when Merlin wrapped himself around Arthur and threw them both on the ground.

“Don’t move,” Merlin whispered.  “Don’t make a sound.”

A lifetime of experience had taught Arthur that a reporter’s first instinct, the innate desire to question, was sometimes unsuited for the business at hand.  Sometimes suppressing that instinct would yield better results.  The way that Merlin’s teeth were tightly clenched as he peered over the low stone wall they had fallen behind suggested this was one of those times.  When Arthur tried to roll to his side so he could see over the wall, Merlin’s grip on his wrist tightened, transferring the tension that thrumbed through his body to Arthur.  He shook his head with the smallest of motions.

Seconds dragged by with the dreadful consistency of molasses.

Then Arthur realised that he could hear the rustling of gravel.  Something was on the path, something that Merlin was afraid of.

A surprising thought popped into his head, that while he couldn’t see much of Merlin’s face the light from a neighbour’s house showed the profile of his eyelashes.

‘What a funny thought to have when you’re in danger.’

With care to keep quiet, Arthur began to look for a weapon, a staff or even a rock, unwilling to meet his end without a fight, when all at once the tension drained from Merlin completely.  “Well, that was close.”

Arthur shoved himself up and tried to see whatever had terrified Merlin so deeply.  There wasn’t anything, nothing that would explain the barman’s behaviour, but just as he was going to dismiss it as a childish prank something drew his eye.  He’d first assumed it was a shadow.  Then the shadow moved, bounding up onto one of the ubiquitous stone walls. It was silhouetted for just a moment before it was gone.  

It was a giant feline form.

“And now you’ve met the Beast of the Mines.”

“Shit.  I’m going to have to re-write my story.”

Waking up in the just slightly too short bed of the Dolaucothi Arms was easier the second day.  For one thing, Arthur’s mind was racing with potential avenues for his story.  The local legend was true, a giant cat roamed the fields of central Wales.  Bryn Howell’s sheep had been mauled by some sort of panther, or was it a leopard?  An education that had focused on history and his father’s value system hadn’t contained much zoology, so he couldn’t remember which one was dark, though a cursory knowledge of the weather was enough to know it wasn’t local.

Arthur was still mulling over whether the Beast had been introduced to the area by someone who was deliberately bolstering the legend, or if an illegally acquired pet had escaped its owner’s custody, when he stepped into the dining room.  Gwen was thoughtfully rearranging chairs while Merlin dragged tables into a new configuration with considerably less care.

“Good morning Arthur, Merlin was just telling me about your adventure last night,” Gwen said when she noticed him standing by the door.  

“Yes, it was certainly a night I’ll remember.”  Merlin wiggled his eyebrows over the unintentional innuendo set Gwen giggling, and it was all he could do not to roll his eyes. There was a pause while Arthur wondered if he was allowed to sit down and ask for breakfast.  “Is there any reason you’re juggling furniture?”

“The Honourable Brothers of the Society for Progressive Farming Practices, Carmarthen division, are having their AGM today.  Help yourself to a spot, they won’t be in for a few hours anyways.”

Merlin grinned.  “We’re fairly sure it’s just an excuse to get the boys together for a drink, but don’t let it get around or they’ll have to bring their wives with them.”

“Yes yes, I’m sure that’s fascinating, but I want to hear about the Beast.  Tell me everything Arthur and there’ll be a croissant in it for you.”

“Oh Gwen there’s not really a beast.  It’s just some stray that grew larger than usual.  Tell her Arthur.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed.  He had only seen the cat for a moment, and it had been dark, but his first instinct wasn’t to dismiss it as a house pet.  Judging by its size in comparison to the wall it must have been significantly larger than any domesticated breed, he was certain of that.  No, there was no doubt that what he had seen last night wasn’t a house cat.  More than that, Arthur remembered the tightness in Merlin’s arms while he held him on the ground, the way he had kept perfectly still while he peered into the dark.  Last night Merlin had been genuinely afraid, so why would he suggest otherwise now?

“No, I’m certain it wasn’t just a cat.  I’m just not sure how it got here, have either of you heard of any locals keeping large pets?”

“But you can’t write that,” Merlin interrupted.  “People will come looking for her.”

“Well if there is something out there we should find it before it does too much damage to the flocks.  Besides it will probably bring traffic to the Arms, and more tourists would be good for the whole area,” Gwen mused.

“And what makes you think it’s a girl?  Was it really close enough to tell?”  Perhaps he’d come closer to real danger than he had realised.  Arthur made a mental note to get to the panther wiki page as soon as possible.

“But do we really want those kind of people Gwen?  Tromping all over the inn in their muddy boots, making jokes about how crazy we must be to believe that there’s a beast at all.  Besides, if there is something out there, and we don’t have proof that there is, then it surely won’t survive the winter.”

Arthur was taken aback by how vehement Merlin’s dislike of the story was, and a quick look at Gwen suggested she was as well.  Usually he wouldn’t have cared if someone else was uncomfortable with his writing, but this was Merlin.

“We don’t even know if my editors will want to publish it, and if they do I’ll make you look absolutely heroic.”  Merlin gave him a tight smile.  “Not that anyone who actually knows you will believe it, but it might make your mother proud.”

Merlin flipped him off and went back to dragging the last table into place, but he seemed more relaxed, and the tension began to filter out of the room.  The day was further improved when Gwen came back from the kitchen with fresh coffee and baking left over from yesterday’s spree.  For a moment Arthur let himself relax, sink into the silence, work out the kinks from his neck and enjoy the sun filtering in through the windows.

But of course good things never lasted for Arthur.  Before he had finished his first cup the sound of the front door opening caught his attention.  A quick shoulder check showed Andy in the doorway, slightly more unkempt than usual, but looking surprisingly well rested for a man who hadn’t returned to the hotel last night.  A flash of unexpected guilt hit Arthur; in the excitement of the last day he hadn’t thought of Andy or his story once.

“Let’s take a walk,” Andy said, using his body to hold the door behind him open.  The silence was deafening, and Andy’s body language was like none he’d never seen.  Both men stayed quiet until they fell into step on the path that led from the Arms to the river.

“I take it you’ve found something interesting?”

Andy gave a small huff, and suddenly he was back to his old self.  “‘Course I have, I told you there was a story to be had here.  “But I need you to do some research to figure out the shape of it.  There’s a man, goes by the name Arvel Forrester, but I’ve an inkling he changed it.  He bought property here almost a year ago, the Harper estate.  Thing is, he’s got a bunch of tattoos all over both arms, prison style, and they might be gang related.  You find out who he really is, and why a gang would want a toe hold in central Wales and we have a big story.”

“But what does that have to do with the violence you’d noticed?  If the upswing in domestics and brawls that caught the police’s attention started 9 months ago that’s not long enough.  If he’d been recruiting that heavily for three months it wouldn’t have been subtle and the police would have noticed.”

Andy’s scowl was the darkest Arthur had ever seen it, but it was still Andy’s scowl and therefore vastly preferable to the blank look he had been wearing when he’d first arrived at the inn.

“I don’t know, you’re the writer you figure it out!”

“Well there’s only so much I can do on my phone, less now that the tower is down, I’ll have to head back to Cardiff for the day.  I’ll take the car and drive in tomorrow morning.”

“No.  I need the car and you need to get the research done today.”

“Andy you’re being unreasonable.  You can’t expect me to get to Cardiff without driving!”

“You’re a smart boy, you’ll find a way!”  Andy was almost hissing, and watching Arthur step back to avoid the spittle seemed to startle him away from his anger.   The second mood swing in as many minutes was startling.  He rested his face in his hand.  “Sorry Arthur.  Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

Arthur turned towards the river to give him a moments privacy and the chance to get his thoughts in order.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on in this village, but whatever it is the sooner we publish the sooner it’ll stop.  They trust me, but if I push for answers too quickly they’ll stop telling me anything.  The more info you can find about this Arvel the better I can steer the conversation.  Trust me, and find a way into the city.  I agreed to pick up someone in Carmarthen later today, that’s why I need the car, but you can take a taxi to the train and come back tomorrow morning.  This is important Arthur.”

He took another deep breath of clean air.  Andy was right, it wouldn’t be impossible to get to Cardiff without the car.  Really he objected more to the implication that he was an errand boy, easily dismissed for menial tasks.  Arthur Pendragon was no one’s servant!  But when he stripped out his personal feelings there was a certain logic to it.  Andy couldn’t leave, and wasn’t experienced in the kind of research that would need to be done, so Arthur would have to.

“Alright, keep the car and I’ll find my own way.  I’m not sure when mobile service will return, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning at the latest, and if I need to pass any information on sooner I’ll leave it at the inn.  You’ll be alright checking in for messages?”

Andy’s smile was genuine.  “Sure Arthur my boy, not a problem.”  A folded A4 was produced from his pocket.  “These are his tattoos, near as I can remember them.  I hope they’re distinctive enough for a positive id, because I did not want to pull my camera out for a selfie with this man.  Now I’m going to head back to the inn to get a few hours shut eye.”

Andy had taken a few paces back towards the in when he stopped and turned.  “It’s funny about the tower.  Yesterday morning I overheard somebody talking about getting some work done before the tower went down.  I wonder how they knew?”

Arthur tucked that away in a corner of his mind to prod at later, and after taking another stretch, decided to head back himself.  A cluster of old men, presumably the Honourable Brothers, had formed near the front door, getting one last smoke before they went inside.  Gwen was standing by the door greeting farmers, but not so busy that Arthur felt badly monopolizing her time once more.

“Gwen, can you call me a cab?  I need to get to the nearest train station.”

“Of course, can I ask where you’re going?”

“I need to get some research done, so I’m heading to Cardiff.  Do you know how long that’ll take by train?”

When Gwen grabbed his elbow it felt friendly, rather than the overstepping of boundaries.  “At this time of day it’ll take ages, but my best friend and her husband are heading there today, I’m sure they’ll take you.”

Arthur’s protests that he didn’t want to impose were ignored.  “Just stay here, then Merlin can walk you over to their house.”  With that she disappeared into the back, and Arthur realised there were just some people you didn’t say no to.

While all the houses in Pumpsaint were nice in their own way, the one that Merlin led him to was stunning.  It looked like it belonged on the front of one of Conde Nast’s magazines.  Equally stunning was the brunette standing on the driver’s side of the much too expensive sports car parked in front.

“You must be Arthur,” the model drawled.  He had only known her for seconds and already Arthur suspected that she drawled most of the time.  “Gwen called to make sure we didn’t leave before you got here.  I’m Morgana and I’ll be your driver today.”

“Careful, this one is a man eater,” Merlin whispered with enough volume to insure Morgana could hear.

“Nonsense, I gave up man eating when I started my new diet.  It’s done a world of good for my hair and nails.  And if you’re finished poisoning my new friend’s mind he might want to call dibs on the front seat before my husband gets out here.”

“Thank you for the ride, I’ll just be one moment.”  Arthur pulled Merlin a few steps away so he could snare a small bit of privacy.  “It’s just something that you said last night, about it being the best night you’d had in ages.  Was that true?”

Merlin’s face softened.  “Yeah mate.  Best in months.”  He looked at his shoes, a self conscious act that Arthur hadn’t seen him make before, then said, “I know it’s dumb and all, but my Mom used to write a good luck charm on my arm when I was having a bad day.  Could I, you know, just...never mind, ignore me.”

Arthur wondered if you could develop facial muscles by smiling.  He was certain he would find out before leaving Pumpsaint.  He folded up his sleeve and offered his forearm to Merlin.

“Here, I’ll take all the luck I can get.”

Merlin, blushing while he studiously inked a phrase in Welsh onto Arthur’s arm, was a sight he would remember for a long time.  The blush passed to Arthur when Merlin cheekily kissed below the words.

“There you are, your fortune is secured.  All your answers will jump into your arms without any effort.”

“Oh, is that what you’re telling him?” A familiar voice asked.  “Because from here it just looks like you’re staking a claim.”  The constable from Saturday’s fracas ducked out of the perfect house’s front door.

“Quiet Leon, this is too cute for words and Gwen will want a report.”

Arthur blushed harder, but whatever reticence Merlin had shown earlier vanished like smoke.  “Enough of you two, I’ll not hear one word from the couple who hosted the Summer Solstice two years ago.  Don’t think we’ve forgotten about that catastrophe.  So be safe and try not to embarrass me on the drive down.”

“Of course we won’t embarrass you Merlin.  It’s not like I made Leon go looking for photos from his younger days when Gwen told me you were coming.”  Leon offered a book over the bonnet for Morgana’s approval, and when she nodded he tucked himself into the front seat.  “Now if you two are done we’re getting this show on the road.”

When he had gotten into the surprisingly spacious back seat and the Audi had pulled onto the road Arthur looked at his arm.  “I don’t suppose either of you read Welsh?  I have no idea what this says.”

To Arthur’s great delight Morgana was wickedly funny and had decided that Gwen’s seal of approval was more than enough for her.  She announced that in honour of his presence they were going to take the scenic route, then proceeded to narrate the history of the area while driving at a speed he could tell was higher than the posted limit even without being able to see the speedometer.  Leon was as steady and even-tempered as the first time they had met, adding the occasional, “If you get caught I’m not going to get you out of a fine.”

“So what do you do?” Arthur asked, certain she would answer either industrial espionage or weapons contractor.

“I’m between jobs right now,” she said slowing to a safer speed as they entered another village.

“What my lovely wife is saying, is that there’s not much call for lawyers who specialise in social justice work in Carmarthenshire.”  The driver and co-pilot shared a fond look.  “And for some reason we haven’t moved.”

“Your mother lives here, and she’s too settled to move to the city.  Either she’d die of shock or her neighbours would when she sat them down to have a chat about their sex lives.”

“In her defense the Robberts were being very loud, and they seemed grateful to get another babysitter out of it.”

Arthur knew his jaw was hanging open, but he couldn’t seem to close it.  By these standards the rest of Pumpsaint were closed mouth prudes.

“You don’t have to tell us what you do professionally, I think the whole town knew in a matter of minutes.  A big time reporter from London, in our tiny town.  So you’ve been to the Pumpsaint WI's Annual Jam and Chutney Exhibition, and Gwen said that Merlin said you’d had a close encounter with our local legend, and I don’t mean Gwaine, plus Davi is very excited.  I think he’s told everyone in the village that this is a blow to the English patrimony.  So while I have you trapped in my car I have to ask.  Which one are you really writing?”

“All of them actually.  They probably won’t be published at the same time, there’s no real guarantee that they’ll be published at all, but I am writing the whole lot.”

“But this isn’t your usual beat, I looked up your work on Saturday.  After meeting your charming friend I was curious.  You usually focus on crime and politics, not the slice of life you seem to be working on now,” Leon said, deceptively casual in a way that set Arthur on edge.  It was a tactic he had been taught by an older reporter in the first week he had been working, how to ferret out the truth without alerting your subject that they were being questioned.  He’d gotten some of his best stories when people didn’t realise they should shut up.

The sudden silence in the car had texture.

“My Love I think he’s caught you,” Morgana said, speeding up now that the village had disappeared in the rear view mirror.  “I told you I should do all the talking.”

“So it would seem,” Leon agreed.  “Alright I’ll be frank.  I don’t know what brought you to our little village, but I doubt it was either sheep or jam.  Within twelve hours your friend was seen with some unsavory individuals, and I want to know why or else I’m taking this to my inspector.”

The road provided the only noise in the suddenly much too small vehicle.

Arthur wondered if Leon realised that he had admitted to not passing the information to his boss, then decided that was inconsequential.  All that remained was the decision to share what little he knew, and possibly gain an informant, or deny everything and slog through the aftermath on his own.  After all Leon didn’t actually know anything, not with any certainty, and his suspicions would have no legal recourse.  Not to mention that they hadn’t done anything illegal.

In the end it came down to the look of fear in Gwen’s eyes when the yobs had come to the inn on Sunday morning, the sweet warmth sparking in whatever was starting with Merlin, and the determination that Andy had shown when he first convinced Arthur that the village was worth investigating.  There was something going on in Pumpsaint, and Arthur was sure that if left unchecked it could do significant damage.  Maybe Leon could be an ally, rather than just another source.

“I actually did come to town for sheep.  But you’re right, it didn’t take long to catch on that there was a bigger story.  Andy met a gentleman who took a shine to him while he was in lockup.  He’s been cultivating the story from the inside while I hang out and look busy.”

Leon nodded, his face more stern than it had been.   “I suppose that’s good news, though it would have been nice if you’d know what was happening rather that just making assumptions based on what you’d seen.”

“Alright I’ve offered my bit, now you get to talk.  What have we gotten into?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss an active investigation.”

Morgana frowned and sped up in protest.  “That’s not fair and you know it,” she said.

Leon turned his body to meet Arthur’s eyes.  “I really am sorry, but we’ve been playing this one close to the chest.  They’re secretive enough as it is, but if they know for sure how closely we’re watching they might get even more paranoid.  This can’t get into a story.”

“This is about more than just a story.  Andy’s a right arsehole, but he doesn’t deserve to be left high and dry, and if he’s into something dangerous I need to know!”  Arthur hoped what he was saying was getting through, because the last few hours were making him doubt the wisdom of letting Andy continue his undercover work.  The mood swings he had witnessed this morning were disquieting when seen on a man whose emotional range was usually somewhere between genially content and genially opportunistic.  It looked like Leon was listening though, looked like he was considering his options in the same way Arthur had.

“Besides if you want me to stay cooperative you’ll have to work with me.  I don’t know much yet, but Andy’s still with them and I’m hoping to get some more info today.  If you want to be privy to what we find out you need to tell me what you know.”  Arthur was good at reading people; it was one of the skills he was most proud of even if it had been one of the most difficult to develop.  Everything he was seeing said Leon was almost there, just at the edge of the precipice that would let them work together.  He just needed a push, something to assure him this effort would be beneficial.

“For example, if we were working together I would ask you if you knew they were picking up someone in Carmarthen this afternoon?”

Leon turned around in his seat again.  “You’re sure?  This afternoon?”

“Yeah, they’re having Andy do it.  If they’re as paranoid as you think they might be sending someone who hasn’t been officially indoctrinated so as to escape notice.  Could be important...”

Leon nodded and relaxed before he turned back to the road.  “Alright I’ll tell you what we know, but this is off the record until I say otherwise.  I won’t jeopardize the investigation.  Officially we’re looking into the assault of Jarrod Warrick Gully, he was a Traveler who was badly beaten at the end of May, but unofficially the whole thing reeks.  We’ve had fights in the streets, the Bowen farm was vandalised, and there have been more domestics in the last six months than we’ve had in the last six years.  The Carvers had only been married fifteen days when Mary Carver beat her husband until he needed stitches.”

“Can you tell me more about Gully?  Finding out how he’s connected may be useful.”

“That may be the worst part, we don’t think he is connected.  He’s missing bits of memory, doctors say that’s usual after a coma, but he didn’t know anyone in the area and didn’t recognise any pictures after the fact.  We know his injuries were severe, and they were performed by five different individuals who continued after he had fallen unconscious.  Due to the size of a footprint near where we found Gully’s motorbike we suspect Allan Ward was involved, but we have no way to prove that.”

A deep silence returned to the car while Arthur absorbed all the new information.

“Have there been many fights at the pub?”

“Well you are on the ball.  No, our plight can’t be blamed on alcohol because altercations at the Dolcauthoi Arms have gone down in the past year.”

“You have to understand just how uncharacteristic this is for Pumpsaint,” Morgana said.  “This is a town with almost no history of violence, because if something does happen you’re just as likely to have a group of little old women arrive on your doorstep as you are to have the police show up, and if I have the choice I’d rather deal with the law.  People are in other people's business and there is incredible societal pressure to conform, at least to within the standard deviation.  But here’s the interesting part, the standard deviation isn’t the same in Pump as it is in the rest of the country.  They’re remarkably tolerant of racial and religious differences, so long as you embrace certain cultural norms of the area and participate in village life.

“I first came to Pumpsaint to research when I was still at Uni.  In the eighties there was a court case where a pair of bigots were interrupted in an attack on an Asian family and set upon by most of the village.  They hid in their home until police could arrive from Lampeter and escort them out.  Really, can you believe that during the Broadwater Farm riots a whole village rallied to defend a Muslim family?”

“Pumpsaint has always been a quirky place, but it’s always been welcoming too.  Somedays I don’t recognise people I’ve grown up with.  It’s like everyone is on their worst days all the time.”  Leon’s frustration was clear in his voice, and to Arthur’s surprise the sympathy he felt wasn’t the dissociated brand he commonly experienced when dealing with the subjects of his writing.

“I don’t know what kind of welcome Pumpsaint usually provides but I’ve felt remarkable included.  Is there some reason I haven’t been treated badly?”

“You’re guess is as good as mine.

“Besides you’ve fallen in with the right boys, and Gwen liked you even before she was floating on cloud nine with Lancelot,” Morgana offered.  “If it weren’t for the gay thing you’d be the poster boy for the Marwnadau too.”

“Marwnadau? I haven’t heard of that.”

“They’re what they call themselves.  It means Elegies in Welsh, if you don’t know how to conjugate properly.  Eight months ago a man named Arvel Forrester began hosting informal meetings every few weeks.  It’s usually between seven and ten guests, but not the same group every time.  He invites all sorts of people: clergy, businessmen, farm hands, he’s even invited police.” Leon fell silent, and during the long pause only the sound of the road remained.

Eventually Morgana drew in a deep breath and said, “What my husband is avoiding bringing up is that he even invited me.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh he served tea and cucumber sandwiches and talked about how letting foreigners into our country was going to be our downfall.  He got very close to a rant about how weak and corrupt our government has become, and how power spread out is power diluted.  I’d call him racist, but it’s not race he objects to because he made clear that second generation immigrants were fully Britts even if we should chuck their parents and grandparents ‘back to where they came from’.”  Looking over her shoulder Arthur could see that her knuckles had gone white where they gripped the steering wheel.  “The worst part was that the other three guests had already been to a lunch before and agreed with him.  I felt like I couldn’t call him a tosser and walk out because of the way Marjory was nodding and sipping her tea.  The worst part was not being able to say anything.”

Morgana suddenly decelerated and pulled into the scree at the side of the road.  “Give me a moment,” she said, before stepping out of the car.

Leon sighed.  “She had a horrible stress headache for days after the meeting and she was too upset to tell me about it.  After she recounted the experience to my Detective Inspector she had her first nosebleed in years and couldn’t sleep a full night without waking up from nightmares.  I’m only telling you this so you know what talking to you is costing her, and so you know not to push further.  Please, don’t test what I’d be willing to do to protect my wife.”  The look he shot Arthur was as significant as it could be without actually being threatening.  Arthur nodded his acquiescence.  “Well then, I’m going to take this break to call the boys in Lampeter.  You might want a stretch too.”

The Morgana who got back into the car had regained her sleek self assurance, or at least could fake it, and topics of conversation turned to lighter fare at Leon’s insistence.  Arthur hadn’t realised how weighty the conversation had become, or maybe how invested he had been, until he felt the coils of tension in his jaw began to relax.  Once they did, however, he was hit by a wave of gratitude to Leon, who was currently wrestling stories about Arthur’s school days from him in exchange for Morgana’s gleefully recounted stories about Merlin.  A large chunk of them involved dropping breakable items, which he added to the list of things to tease Merlin with.  Considering the length of their acquaintance it was a surprisingly long list.

An hour in Morgana insisted on stopping for lunch, a decision Arthur understood even if his personal preference was to continue straight to Cardiff.  He knew the desire was based on the persistent itch of curiosity that had only deepened after hearing his new friend’s stories, but even after a short acquaintance he recognized that wanting to solve a puzzle wouldn’t sway Morgana’s mind once she had made it.

Arthur waited until she left for the loo, then dropped his voice and leaned across the table towards Leon.  “Maybe I should have asked you this before, but have you been able to track the gang aspect?”

“Gang aspect?” Leon shook his head.  “No, we haven’t found a connection to organised crime.”

“Andy said Arvel had tattoos on his arms, and he would know the difference between a professional job and the sort of hand done work you get in prison.”  Arthur dug through his bag for the folded foolscap he’d been passed, and flattened it on the table where Leon could see it.  “We jumped from home made tattoos to prison to criminal past with a possible change in identity.  That’s what I was going to look for today, who Arvel might really be.”

“They might be homemade, but none of these strike me as familiar,” Leon said tracing the sinuous designs that Andy had sketched out earlier.

“Well I recognise that one,” Morgana said from behind him, poking at one of the patterns.  “I saw it when I was looking into medieval Welsh law.  It’s used in a fragment of Cyfraith Hywel called the Black Book of Chirk.  By the way, you’re both horribly obvious when you’re trying to be sneaky.  Don’t bother.”

Arthur doubted that Arvel had his LPC, but it was an interesting bit of colour that would add spice to the story.  He might have promised to hold off publishing anything that would spook the Elegies, but as soon as arrests were made he would have a fantastic piece for his editors.

Even though it would make him look over eager he leaned in and asked, “Do you remember much about this Black Book?”

“It’s not terribly important, from a historical standpoint, just a Welsh translation of a Latin work that was probably a translation from Welsh to begin with.  I only noticed it because Aberystwyth used to have a copy.  It caused a bit of a furor when it was destroyed a few years ago, they ended up sacking a bunch of archivists for it.”

“Alright, here’s the plan.  Arthur will see if any of his contacts have ideas about this book, I will stop and talk to a friend of mine who might be able to use these tattoos to identify Arvel, and my beautiful wife will forgive me for working on the first day we’ve had out of the village in months, while purchasing very expensive shoes that can double as weapons despite how nonsensical those are in our tiny little village.  All agreed?”

Morgana shook her head.  “You mean well, but contrary to everything I’ve tried to teach you in the last five years, shopping isn’t always the solution.  I want to help.”  She sighed, and in that sigh Arthur could hear the stress and tension that she had hid so well.  “Why don’t I re-read the Black Book.  There may be something I’m forgetting, and I know they have a copy at the University of Cardiff.  Technically you need to apply for a reader pass to see the special collections, but I still know people.  I’m sure I can get in.”

With that Arthur’s mobile beeped a cheery trill to remind him that a day away from service was enough to make his editors go crazy.

If Morgana out of her element was fierce and in charge Morgana in her element was a thing of beauty.

Over lunch Leon had prompted stories of the few cases she had been involved with before she moved to Pumpsaint, and the passion she had shown made it difficult to understand how she could have given it up to move to a tiny village in Wales.  When she had led Arthur into the Special Collections Research Room he could almost see the excitement coming off her slight form in waves.

“Lisa, so good to see you!” she gushed. “It’s been ages since we’ve caught up.  How are your studies going?”

Arthur smiled to himself and guessed that the interest Morgana was faking would have been real if the intellectual curiosity that had been simmering since the car hadn’t gotten in the way.  While -- slightly-overwhelmed-in-the-face-of-Morganna’s-charm-blitzkrieg -- Lisa provided the appropriate small talk, he took in the room.  It wasn’t everyday that he found himself in amongst so many old texts, a fact that was by design rather than circumstance.  The fact that Arthur was gay had been a stumbling block with his father, but the fight that had occurred when he had announced that he wasn’t going to pursue a degree had almost killed the relationship.  Never a warm man, the screaming fight had still surprised Arthur with its ferocity, and what little contact they still had was overshadowed by the memory of that night.

Arthur’s attention returned to the conversation only to hear the dreaded words, “But you don’t have an appointment.”

Morgana leaned over the desk to peer at the computer screen Lisa was looking at.  “That can’t be right.  Please can you check again?”

“As you can see we have a dozen appointments for today, but I can’t see your name.  Could it be under something else?”

“Oh no, this bollocks up the day.  And after we drove all the way from Lampeter just for this,” Morgana said, wringing her hands in a distress that wasn’t entirely false, even if she wasn’t the type to wring her hands at all.  “Professor Gaius from the History department said he was going to book me the appointment weeks ago, but he must have forgotten.”

“Well I suppose it could have been an honest mistake,” Lisa said slowly.  “And there is the possibility of a glitch in the scheduling system, that was a problem when we first got the software.”  Then coming to a conclusion she finished with a flurry of typing and a quick, “Why don’t I just back date your appointment and book one of the private rooms.  Give me a list of what you need and I’ll have someone get them while you wait.”

Morgana’s grin when she grabbed the appropriate gloves and threw a pair at Arthur’s chest was wicked, and his smile when they walked back to the private room was smug.  To make the day even better his phone vibrated excitedly, the number on the phone a familiar one.

“Don’t let Lisa catch you with that,” Morgana warned.  “Talking on the phone in the library is a bannable offense.”

“Hello Peter I’m glad you got my message, I’ve got a question about that robbery at the British Library.  Did the thieves take a book called the Black Book of Chirk?”

There was a pause before the tinny voice in Arthur’s ear said, “You do know that this story is mine and I have no intention of sharing it, right?  And this after I loaned you that source from the Birmingham thing last year.  You owe me, right?”

Arthur gave Morgana a pleased nod as his suspicions were confirmed.  “I’m not the sort to poach an article, you know that.  Just give me an official yes and we can move on then.”

“Yes, the Black Book of Chirk was in the archival box stolen last Wednesday, along with half a dozen other Welsh texts.”

“Can you send me a list of the other works taken?”

“How the hell do you go out on a sheep mauling case and end up with a lead on the story that has been baffling some of the smartest coppers in our fair city?”

“Don’t worry, it’s still your story,” Arthur laughed.  “If I find anything interesting I’ll send it your way.  You’ll get me the books?”

“Yes, yes fine.  I’ll send you the list.  Cheers.”

Slogging through massive texts was not his specialty, so when the archival assistant reappeared with the amended list of stolen books and an apology that Cardiff only had two of the missing works, but had digital copies of three more, Arthur was content to leave the heavy academic work to Morgana.  Not speaking Welsh had become a hindrance in the last three days, an admission that he had never expected to make.  So while Morgana confirmed that her memories of the Black Book were complete, Arthur returned to his laptop and tried to trace how Arvel Forrester could be connected to Welsh history.

When that line of inquiry went nowhere he changed directions and began to search for a valuation of the books themselves. Maybe there was a symbolic tie between old Welsh law paying for the new resistance; not the most brilliant argument, but sometimes being a reporter was about writing what sounded good rather than what was right.  Arthur was just finishing an email to a friend of his father when a soft knock broke the perfect silence.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said the old hippy who pushed open the door.  “But I seem to have forgotten that one of my favorite students was coming down to use the library, and I’d hate to miss our appointment.”  He arched an eyebrow and Morgana visibly cringed under his stare.

“Arthur Pendragon please meet Professor Gaius.  He was one of my mentors, especially when I expressed an interest in law history,” Morgana said, not bothering to look guilty at all.

Gaius gave Arthur a polite nod.  “I do believe you are avoiding the elephant in the room Morgana, and that’s not your way.  Do you have anything you wanted to say to me?”

“I’m sorry I let Lisa believe that you’ve gotten forgetful in your old age.  We both know you’re sharp as a tack, and nobody who knows you would think otherwise.”

“I notice that you’re not sorry for lying to get yourself a spot in the research room, but I’ll let that pass.”  His face gentled, and the wrinkles rearranged themselves into a more pleasing configuration.  “So how is my favorite former student, and what brings you back to Cardiff?  Have you finally decided to return to Academic life?”

“Actually we could use your help.” Morgana produced Andy’s drawing and offered it to Gaius.  “You heard about the stolen books, yes?”

“Of course, treasures such as those don’t go missing without causing a stir in the community.  There’s an email making the rounds which suggest possible punishments should the culprits be found.”  Gaius gave a small shudder.  “I will spare your delicate sensibilities by not sharing the list, but let it be known that academics take attacks on their field very seriously.  There’s not a librarian I would care to cross without having an escape plan in place.”  

“They may have a chance to enact their punishments.  We are looking for a connection to a man with these tattoos,” Arthur offered.

“I know I’ve seen the big one before, it’s in here somewhere,” Morgana said gesturing at the book.  “Arthur is a nice boy, but not one for extensive research.  Help me find it and there’s a coffee and biscuits for you.”

“My dear child, I would aid you out of intellectual curiosity alone.  That and the strong desire to see these miscreants strung up for their actions.”

While the old man bent his head over the book Arthur leaned over and whispered, “When you said this man was Gaius did you mean the same Gaius from your story about the Christmas party, the drambuie, and the pigeons?”

“The very same.”

With that scandalous mental image fresh in his mind, the academics were lost to their research and Arthur went back to his email.

It was almost four thirty when the next knock interrupted the little noises of deep academic thought, but this time Arthur opened the door to find Leon.  He had apparently already met Gaius before, as the two merely exchanged nods.  Morgana didn’t even look up.

“I keep reminding myself that police work is slow and methodical, but that doesn’t mean I like the pace.  No leads yet, but the boys will get back to me when they find something.  Any luck on your end?”

“Well no one has stood up and shouted, ‘Eureka’ so I have to assume not.”  Arthur rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.  He considered his time in Pumpsaint well spent; even without Andy’s undercover work he had found three stories, not to mention the development of his personal and social life.  However two nights of disrupted sleep wasn’t good for anyone, and the excitement packed into those days was taking its toll.

“Here, this will help,” Leon said, pulling a sandwich out of his bag and offering it.  Before he could take it there was a disapproving throat cleared.

“If you gentlemen are interested, and will put that food away right now before I am forced to take action, we have found this text’s use of your tattoo.”  Leon obediently shoved the well wrapped sandwich back in his pocket, though now that he had seen food Arthur’s stomach reminded him he had gone without for almost five hours, and wasn’t that just a shame.  

“Unfortunately everything is as Morgana remembered it, and while it is certainly an academic and cultural treasure, nothing explains why it was stolen.  A few collectors might be interested in buying it, but the difficulty in keeping it’s provenance a secret cuts the price the thieves could expect from its sale.  I simply cannot fathom why someone would steal this book.”

With regret Arthur dismissed his pet theory that the books would fund some sort of paramilitary coup.  It was too bad, coups were usually fun for the reporters covering them.  He reached over the table to flip the open tome closed, but Morgana grabbed his wrist before he could manage.  “Gloves,” she reminded him.  “We’ve talked about what happens when you cross a librarian.”

“Youngman, what is that you have written on your arm?”

In the rush of discovery, Arthur had forgotten about Merlin’s good luck charm.  Morgana had offered to translate it on the ride in, but Leon had insisted that would lead to a wreck of epic proportions and that they would simply have to wait until one of them was no longer driving before translating anything.  From there it had simply slipped his mind.

“Sorry Arthur, I owe you a translation don’t I.  Gwna dda dros ddrwg, uffern ni'th ddwg.  It means, repay evil with good, and hell will not claim you.”  She let Arthur take back his arm before saying, “It’s much more romantic in Welsh.”

Gaius’ mouth was moving, like he was rolling the phrase over his tongue again and again.  “I’ve heard that before, I’m sure of it.  Where was it though?”  He shook his head to dismiss the thought, “Oh well, something will jog the memory eventually.  Now I believe someone offered to pay for my services with a meal.”

Morgana was able to acquire a table at the sort of restaurant that would usually require reservations, not to mention much more formal attire, through a pure force of will that Arthur was beginning to realize was typical for her.  It was probably too early for dinner, but that didn't stop Arthur, who had passed through the land of hunger and was now firmly in the valley of the famished; Only a life time of societal conditioning stopped him from waving down a waiter and ordering one of everything.

“So what are your plans now?” Gaius asked the table at large.

“Unfortunately being a tit isn’t an arrestable offense, so I’m afraid we’ll have to hold off charging Forrester for now.  We’ll keep a close eye on him though, and maybe Andy will find something incriminating.  We have a room booked for the night and plans for brunch, then we’ll drive back tomorrow afternoon.”  

Arthur's vague guilt over having scuppered the couple's plans for the day was compounded by their lack of success.  None of the myriad of emails he had sent out had turned up any potential alias’ or other identities, and having internet access hadn’t allowed him to track where Arvel had been before he had appeared in Pumpsaint.  Unless an old classmate who worked for the Met had any brilliant revelations, it was looking more likely than ever that the Forrester identity was a fraud.

“I’ll stay overnight too, make an early start in the morning and get back on my own.  Maybe I’ll rent a second car, though I might have trouble claiming expenses for that one.”

Finally Arthur’s wishes were answered, and the waiter appeared.  Only the server’s significant amount of experience kept him unfazed at a table where only Morgana looked like she belonged.

“Have you had a chance to look over the menu yet?  Perhaps I can tempt you with our specials, a braised duck with risotto or a French-style fish head soup?”

Gaius spine snapped him upright.  “Again shall come the head of a salmon without brains!”

“I can check with the kitchen but I don’t think the soup is salmon based.”

“Thank you, we’ll all have the duck,” Leon said, putting a hand on Gaius’ arm to stop whatever revelation he was having.

“And if you could choose a wine to pair with it, that would be lovely,” Morgana added smoothly.

Gaius’s face had lost ten years in his excitement, but he gained enough control to lower his voice after the waiter left.

Arthur had the presence of mind to place his mobile on the table set to record.

“There’s a prophecy called the Armes Prydein, or the Prophecy of Britain, which is about the expulsion of the Anglo-saxons from a Britain that rallies under Welsh rule.  It’s published in a text that also contains the verse on your arm, and can you hazard a guess as to why else it might be important?”

“Because it contains some of the tattoos we’ve been looking for?” Morgana suggested hopefully.

“And because it was stolen from the Library of London last Wednesday,” Arthur added.

Leon’s face told the story without needing to speak.  “Damn, we’ve been looking at the wrong book.  Is there any way to find what else is in it?”

“Special Collections are closed for the night, but we could try again tomorrow morning.  Lisa cannot hope to stand against the force of my plus eighteen charisma,” Morgana offered.

“Darling your nerd is showing.”

“Or I could turn on my computer,” Arthur suggested.  He knew that the smile on his face was far too cocky, but for some reason there was nothing he could do to dispel it.  “The Armes Prydein is not a text that the University of Wales has in its collection, but they do have a digital copy that they offer to academics that ask for it.  It was on Peter’s list, so it’s in my bag.”

There was a long pause filled by the muted noises of the restaurant.

“It would be rude to boot up a laptop in the middle of a restaurant simply to satisfy our curiosity, wouldn’t it?” Leon admitted with some reluctance.  

Arthur considered that the table was filled with the professionally curious for one moment, before Gaius said, “I’m old, I can get away with it.”  

He was just glad that Morgana’s intense charm had managed to get them a table off to the side, where it was slightly less obvious that they were all craning their necks to see the PDF before it had even had a chance to load.  The folded A4 was brought out and immediately produced results when one of the smaller tattoos was matched to the front cover.

“Bugger me, they’re perfect matches.  That one too,” Leon said pointing at another corner.

The waiter, Arthur was sure he had given a name earlier but it had fled his mind completely, cleared his throat pointedly from where he was standing with the wine.  Gaius closed the laptop and said.  “You know how it is, can’t check my email unless someone shows me how.”  Leon might have looked too much like a scolded schoolboy to pull off the deception, but the server seemed to approve of the polite fiction and poured without comment.

“This changes things,” Morgana said once they were left alone.

Leon, ever the sensible one, sighed.  “Not really.  All we can prove is that Arvel has seen the book or a copy of it before, and that’s not illegal.  As much as I want to truss him up in chains and drag him out of Pumpsaint, we won’t find a Magistrate willing to sign a warrant for so little an infraction.  If we can catch him with the books then we can get charges to stick, and maybe get some of his cronies to roll on the Traveler beating, but anything short of that...”  He ended with a shrug.

“At least we know more than we did this morning.  That’s a start,” Arthur offered, trying to ease the disappointment around the table.  “And Andy may be even more useful.  If whoever he picked up today was carrying the books he may have seen enough to get your warrant.”

“No, I meant that changes our plans.  You’re the only member of the police service that lives in the village, and Arthur needs easy contact with Andy.  We shouldn’t spend the night in Cardiff, we should drive back tonight.”  It was clear from Morgana’s posture that she wouldn’t take any answer but yes.  “I’ll translate the prophecy, and the rest of the verses tomorrow, but we should leave right away.”

“I’ll come too.”

Three surprised gazes fell on Gaius, who was less tense than the others and already appreciating his wine.  “Oh Morgana, I don’t doubt your translation skills, but two heads are better than one, and I have been doing this since before you were out of diapers.  Not to mention that I have more experience with the historical context.  You may not know this, but I have friends in Pumpsaint, and I want them to be safe.  I’ll drive up tomorrow morning to help.”

“So it’s settled then, we’ll leave now.”

“No,” said Arthur, moving his napkin to make space for the server.  “We’ll leave when I’m done with my duck.”

It was dusk when Morgana pulled back onto the motorway, staying closer to the posted speed to placate Leon. The conversation that had flowed so freely earlier was replaced by an easy silence that Arthur used as an opportunity to check his personal email before mobile service disappeared.  When the signal bars flickered away to nothing he tucked it in a pocket and let his eyes close.

There were pieces to the puzzle that were slotting into place, more quickly now as the story neared its natural conclusion.  If Andy had witnessed Arvel receiving stolen goods, or even better, had heard him acknowledge that he had arranged the thefts in the first place, then Lampeter police service would make a neat arrest. Not to mention that Arthur would have a career making story on his hands.  They would stay in Pump long enough to take pictures, then head back to London to great fanfare.  Life would return to normal.

The sort of normal that didn’t have Gwen, or Gwaine, or Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival.  A normal that didn’t involve meeting a woman in the morning, and feeling like he had known her all his life by the evening, or deciding that he could lean on her husband and expect unconditional support.  A normal that didn’t mean feeling like he belonged.  Most notably, a normal life didn’t have Merlin.

And there was the rub, because he knew that anything started with Merlin had a very short shelf life.  Andy might espouse the love them and leave them approach to life, but it had never been his style.  A traitorous little voice suggested that his style was a bachelor apartment and an ice box full of single serve frozen dinners, but Arthur squashed that voice.

While trying to divine his future Arthur must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew Leon was shaking him awake.  “We’re there?” he asked.

“Almost, but there’s something going on up ahead.”

There certainly was something going on.  Bonfires were visible on either side of the road, though the largest one was slightly off to the side.  Now that he was looking he could make out dozens of figures in the dark, with the largest concentration predictably to be found by the largest fires.

“What should we do?” Morgana asked.

“I’m a constable, I have a duty to investigate.  You will stay in the car and keep the doors locked until I get back.”  Leon’s voice was steel.  When he opened the door Arthur followed, but neither made mention of it.  The men and women around the fires took note of them but didn’t make any move to stop them as they made their way up the slight incline to the largest circle.

Most of the conversation stopped when they were close enough to be noticed, but one man continued to speak in low tones to Andy’s ‘friend’ Lee.  He was a striking figure, with high cheekbones and a nose that would be too large on most people, but worked in the almost perfect symmetry of his face.  He had steel grey hair in a very fashionable cut, and was taller than everyone save Ward, who was lurking off to the side.  He even had an inch on Leon, which was a difficult claim to make, and standing higher up the hill he towered over the constable.

Leon did not show any signs of being intimidated.  “May I ask what is going on here?”

The sharp man, Arthur assumed he was Arvel, smiled benevolently.  “Of course Constable, we’re simply having a small gathering of friends to appreciate a beautiful night.  I would certainly have invited you, had I know you would be in town, but sadly we weren’t able to get in touch early enough.   I would have invited your friend too, though I suspect I already know who he is.”

“Arthur Pendragon, but I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

“Did you know there are a many great kings who have been called that?  Hello Arthur, my name is Arvel Forrester, a name sadly without pedigree.  Your friend is around here somewhere too, though I’m afraid I’ve lost track of where he is.”

When they shook hands he could see the start of a tattoo that descended onto the back of Arvel’s hand, and Arthur was pleased to note that Andy had been right; there was no way these tattoos were clean enough to have been made with a modern tattoo gun.

“I take it you spent the day with the Constable and the lovely Morgana.  Did you have a good time?”

“They were kind enough to drive me into town, but I’m afraid my day was spent working on stories from London, so I didn’t get a chance to spend much time with them.”  The lies rolled off his tongue with almost no effort.

“Ah well, don’t work too hard young man.  Life is too short.”

“I’m sure this is interesting,” Leon interrupted, “But you need to have the land owner’s permission to congregate on his land, and I happen to know this isn’t your field.”

“No, this field belongs to Bryn Howell, and he can express his own preferences.”

Arvel gestured to a man who looked tired and pale even in the firelight.

“I invited everyone, it’s alright if they stay on my land.”

Arthur left Arvel’s side and walked over to Bryn.  “You’re a hard man to catch up with Mr. Howell.  I’d like a chance to ask some questions, maybe tomorrow if you have time.”

Even though he looked exhausted, Bryn’s handshake was strong and his smile was genuine, if small and strained.  “I’m sure we can find time.”

Leon looked at the faces of the men and women who stood closest to him then nodded.  “Alright then, glad you have everything under control.  Have a goodnight ladies and gents.”  Then he started back to the car.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both, but that’s my ride.  Good Evening to you all.”

When they were far enough not to be overheard Leon asked, “So?”

“That was one of the most unpleasant meetings I’ve ever experienced.  He made my skin crawl and it was all I could do to avoid pulling my hand away as soon as I touched him.”

“He’s always felt off to me, but this is the first time I’ve felt sick after meeting him.”

Arthur jumped when a voice from the darkness piped up with, “I bet he drowns puppies.  He seems like the sort to drown puppies to me.”

“Balls Gwaine, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Leon scolded.

“We’re here too,” said Merlin, while Percival let the light from his mobile fall on his face.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur demanded.

“We’re watching to make sure nothing gets out of hand.  They started showing up earlier today, and since half of them are strangers we decided a little bit of supervision would be appropriate.”  Merlin drifted closer while he spoke, which went a long way to curing the nausea Arthur had felt since meeting Arvel.  “E and Lancelot just arrived to take the night shift, so we’re heading back.  Can we catch a ride?”

“Only if Gwaine rides in the boot,” Morgana said.

“Darling, I’m a bit concerned that you know I’d fit in your boot.  It sounds like you’re planning something nefarious.”

“I know because I measured before I bought it.  It pays to plan ahead.”

Somehow they did manage to fit, Merlin pressed up against Arthur’s side in a way that was more comfortable than it should have been.  Giving into the inevitable, he wrapped one arm around Merlin’s shoulders.  The car pointedly didn’t comment, though the fact that Gwaine actually was riding in the boot probably contributed to that small mercy.

The digital light from the radio said it was almost one when the car stopped at the Dolaucothi Arms.  Instead of dispersing naturally, the group simply stood around the car in an awkward quiet that grew with each moment.

“My Mum’s decided to host a dinner tomorrow,” Merlin said suddenly.  “Potluck, and you’re all invited.  She said this neighbours sniping at neighbours thing was nonsense and she wouldn’t stand for it, which when you think about it is the sort of statement that might irritate your neighbours even more. You know Mum, though, quiet right until she scolds your ear off.  It’s going to be a big do, you should all come.”

“Sounds good mate, I’ll be there,” Gwaine answered.  There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the group, then they fell back into silence.

Morgana broke the still night this time.  “This is silly, standing around waiting for tomorrow.  I’m tired, I’m going to head home.”  Thanks to the light over the inn’s parking Arthur was able to get a good look at her.  She looked frayed and brittle.  “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

There was another long moment where the only sound was the Welsh countryside, before Morgana walked back to the driver’s side and started her car.

“Goodnight all,” Leon offered.  “You may want to stick to the buddy system for now.”

Then the car pulled off and there were only four left.

“The buddy system sounds like a good idea, Perce why don’t you stay at my place overnight.  Merlin, we can drop you off before we go.”  Another round of exhausted nodding, then Arthur found himself waving goodnight and stepping towards the inn.

In the morning everything looked better, and Arthur wanted to chide himself for being silly enough to be scared of the dark.  In the light of day it was easy to push aside the strange fear that had gripped him after meeting Arvel, easy to assume that the wine with dinner and the deep weariness that had been following him all day had contributed to a strange malaise.  After all Arvel was only a man, even if he was a ruthless man who might be involved in a string of crimes.  The fact that he was photogenic would only add to the story once it was released.

Downstairs in the dining room, Merlin was still and quiet in a way Arthur hadn’t seen before.  He was standing by a window gazing off into nothingness, and Arthur gave into the temptation to record the look on his face.  When Merlin turned around he was still standing there with his phone at eye level.  He felt a blush start to spread up his neck.

“Um, good morning?”  He hadn’t meant to lilt up at the end of that sentence, but there it was, the question mark in his voice.  It seemed that every time they saw each other Arthur did something stupid.

“Oi you clotpole,” Merlin laughed.  “What do you think you’re doing?  I should have you arrested for stalking.  Get Leon to drag you off to jail.”

“Oh come now, if Leon’s going to throw one of us in the stocks it would be you.  He likes me, and even if he didn’t it would get him in trouble with Morgana.”  Arthur felt surprisingly warm, and he hated to break the ease of the moment, but the reporter in him had to ask.  “Has anything happened over night?”

“Well the boys came back from watch early this morning.  They were dog tired, but other than that were fine.  Your mate Andy hasn’t checked in since he left yesterday, but E saw him last night and he was okay.  My mother is going crazy cleaning the house for tonight’s potluck, but that’s usual behavior for her so I’m doing what I can to help.”  Merlin’s smile as he recounted his list was breathtaking, and Arthur reminded himself that it was more important to take in what he was saying than to focus on his lips.

“Best of all, Gaius called the house this morning.”

“Gaius?  Why would he call you?”

“He was great friends with my mother before I was born and Mum moved back to Pumpsaint.  When the only two rooms in the village were rented out he called to see if he could stay at ours for a day.  Mum was thrilled, put her right on cloud nine.”  Merlin’s mother was not the only one on cloud nine, that much was clear by the way Merlin’s eyes sparkled with excitement.  “When I was very small he used to come out during the summer to visit us.  He’d spend a week before whisking off to wherever he was doing research that year, and Mum would suspend bedtimes so I could stay up listening to stories.  When she wasn’t watching he would bring out scads of candy then fake ignorance when I’d bounce off the walls ‘till I was sick.”

“You have some good memories of him.  It sounds like he was a father figure for you.”  Arthur hoped it didn’t sound like he was prodding for the story of his father’s absence, though he definitely was.

The bubbly exuberance that was slipping past Merlin’s edges softened.  “Yes he was.  There were parts of me that I was having trouble accepting, and he helped me reconcile them.”

“Anyways, since Gaius will be at Blue Door, I invited Morgana to come over and work on her translation there.  Would you like to join us?”

Even if he wasn’t sure what was developing between them, a day spent in Merlin’s presence was certainly something he would enjoy.  “Yes Merlin, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Great, Gwen agreed to loan us some dishes so we’d have enough for tonight and I need help carrying them back!”

Arthur was glad that Blue Door -- he could tell a proper noun when he heard one -- was close.  The stack of plates a fresh faced Gwen had pushed into his arms was getting heavier by the step.  How Merlin was managing his even larger stack was a mystery for the ages.  But handling it he was, even if Arthur had caught him cursing at it in a long strange sentence after they had left the kitchen.

“Do you need help?” Arthur asked, ready to jump to the rescue.

“No, I’m fine,” Merlin insisted, not turning around.  “We’re almost there.”

They were almost there, but they were not alone.  An old silver car was parked at the end of the road near the stables, and Gaius was standing on the walk with a woman Arthur didn’t recognise.  For a moment Arthur thought he was going to witness one of Morgana’s Merlin-drops-a-pile-of-breakable-treasures-in-the-most-comedic-way-possible stories, but instead the barkeep made an impressive flail, but still successfully  managed to set the flatware safely next to the gate.  The flurry of arms continued when he sprung forward to embrace Gaius.  It was strangely private, strange because Arthur had a professional curiosity that had once been described as ravenous, and he wasn’t used to turning away.  Arthur looked down and saw the stack of plates in the gravel.  If he shifted his own load to one arm and braced the second stack with his foot he...

“Don’t touch that!”

Arthur nearly dropped his flatware.

“I mean you have your own load,” Merlin babbled.  “And I would be a terrible host if I made you do all the work yourself.  Let me grab those.  Oh by the way, this is my Mum, Hunith.”

As far as introductions to the parents of people who fancied him went-- and that list was disappointingly short -- this was one of the most low key.

“Arthur it’s so nice to meet you.  Merlin has told me wonderful things about you.”

Well that was a good sign.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too Mrs. Emrys, I’ve only heard good things myself.  Thank you for inviting me to your dinner tonight, and for letting us use your home for our research.”

“Well that’s great, glad you’re getting on, we should get to work now,” Merlin interrupted, then claimed his dishes and towed Arthur into the house.  It was sweet and quaint inside, none of the furniture matched and there were more pictures of Merlin and his Mum in the front hallway then there were of Arthur and his father in existence.  The kitchen was warm and bright and tiny.

“What are you doing dragging me away from your mother, I was trying to impress her,” Arthur hissed.

“Really?” Merlin’s eyes were sparkling again.  “And why would impressing Mum be important to you?”

Arthur chose not to address that.  “Usually I would have brought gifts.  Gifts are always appropriate.”   He paused long enough to gird his loins.  “When we have a moment we should talk.  There are things we need to address.”

A strange look passed across Merlin’s face, and he pursed his lips.  “Yes, there are things we should talk about.”

“But that moment is not this moment,” Morgana interrupted, leaning into the kitchen with a mischievous smile.  “This moment is dedicated to Arthur pulling out the USB that I really should have stolen last night, even if it meant my darling husband lecturing me about the importance of silly things like sleep and personal hygiene.”

Arthur couldn’t imagine a Morgana who was anything less than perfectly coifed, and that disbelief must have shown on his face.

“You didn’t see me during my student days,” Morgana assured him.  “I would occasionally hit academic fugues only to wake up and realise that I’d written entire papers I had no memory of.  Now, give me the document and no one gets hurt!”

The trio settled at the large table in the dining room, and was soon joined by Gaius.  Once again Arthur found himself disadvantaged by being the only person in the room who didn’t speak Welsh, and therefore having very little he could contribute Arthur dedicated himself to hammering out a timeline for his story.  When the committee agreed on a translation, usually with quite a bit of impassioned debate beforehand, it would be passed down the table for Arthur to read before it joined the stack he was accumulating.

The prophecy that had caught Gaius’ attention was fairly straightforward.  Life would be hard, signs and portents would appear, all the clans would bond together and throw those Brythonic bastards back across the sea.  Gaius noted the historical interest of including both the Scots and the Vikings as allies, and Morgana was interested by the presence of a prophet called Myrddin.  Not much of anything to prove a connection to Arvel, but interesting in its own way.

What was proving to be more difficult to translate were the pages of verse included after the prophecy itself.  Eventually the bickering reached a pitch that Arthur couldn’t work through.

“Alright, I need to go find Percival.  Does anyone else want a coffee?”

Arthur dutifully took orders, then to Merlin’s great embarrassment, insisted on finding Hunith and asking for her favorite drink.

“Stop it, you’re making me look bad,” Merlin joked from the other room.

“Pull up your socks or I’ll find a better son,” Hunith called back, then ordered a drink with the strangest combination of shots he had ever heard.

Percival was parked where he had been the first day, and like the first day, there was a sizeable queue.  Like Saturday, Davi was again next to him in line.

“Bore da.”

“It’s good to see you as well.”

“Mae'n ddiwrnod braf.”

“Yes, I’m getting quite a bit of work done.”

“Dda i chi. Cael diwrnod braf.”

Arthur had no idea what he had just responded to.  For all he knew Davi had insulted his parentage.  But the sun was shining, the air was fresh, and caffeine was on the horizon, so he embraced the spirit of the day and assumed he had just participated in a genial conversation.  Then he was up to the window and basking in the sweet smell of coffee.

“So I see you escaped the affair.  Leon was by earlier, told me about your project,” Percival said, working the espresso machine with the greatest of ease.  “When Morgana sinks her claws into something she can be quite single minded.”

“I have no trouble believing that.” Arthur took a sip of his drink, grateful that Perce had made his first.  “I’m not sure if it’s worth all the effort we’re putting into this translation.  It’s not as if we can use it as evidence for a warrant.”

For a moment the only noise was steaming milk and bird song.

“Keep an open mind.  Leon says that Morgana has good instincts, but sometimes she has trouble trusting herself.  If she’s certain of this it’s worth listening carefully.”

Arthur meditated on that while he walked back to Blue Door.  There were a lot of instincts involved in the story; Andy’s, Gaius’, Morgana’s, his own.  Everyone’s gut said that Arvel was a bad guy who was up to no good, but there had to be some sort of proof.  Some tangible evidence that could be exposed.  The best lines of inquiry were Andy and Byrn Howell, but maybe holding off on questioning them would be wisest.  Having a complete translation in hand could be a useful tool if Forrester were using it to manipulate his circle.

When he let himself back into the dining room his chair was no longer empty; Freya had taken up residence at his spot on the table, and was sorting through the pages of finished translation.  Arthur almost winced at seeing her.  The circles around her eyes were so dark they looked like bruises, and there was a sickly yellowish tint to her skin.  In her oversized sweater she looked too insignificant to be real.

“God Freya, are you alright?”

Even if she was exhausted, and she was exhausted any idiot could see that, she still had a sweet smile.  “Yes, I’m fine.  Just a bit under the weather.”  The smile drifted off her face.  “Not contagious though.”

The white knight deep in Arthur’s soul prodded him into the noblest self sacrifice.  “Here, have my coffee.”

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping both hands around the cup.  “I hope you don’t mind my joining you.  Being around people makes me feel more myself.”

“Of course you’re welcome here,” Morgana insisted before he could say the same thing.

“Thank you anyways, I’ll try not to disrupt your work.  I do have some information you might be interested in.  My father went up to talk to Howell when he got home yesterday, and the expert identified what mauled the sheep.  It was some sort of a large dog.”

Merlin looked worried.

“Damn, I’m going to have to rewrite my story.”

It took another two hours of hard fought academic rigour, before Gaius was ready to clear his throat and begin presenting.

“The two works were certainly from different authors, probably from different times, though what made the person who produced the text decide to include both eludes me.  The language in the prophecy is more formal, more stately, and is probably more recent than the verse, which reads more like a fairy tale.  The verse tells of a monster called the Crier who is said to eat joy.  It’s a typical for its era, with a certain relation to the later Germanic myths of Siegfried, where a noble man picks up a sword and defends the village with his good heart.  There are versions of that story in a hundred different languages, that is why the prophecy is the more well known, better studied half of the work.”

“Hold that thought,” Merlin said, weaving around chairs and disappearing through the kitchen.  He returned to the room and passed Arthur a battered book of baby names.

“I’m sorry Merlin, I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Arthur teased.

“Ha, ha, so funny it hurts,” he said grimly.  “But I think you’ll be interested in what the name Arvel means.”

He flipped through until he found the right page, then read out loud.  “The name Arvel is a Welsh baby name. In Welsh the meaning of the name Arvel is, cried over.”

The silence at the table had weight.  

Eventually Arthur had to break the silence.  “I think we know how he chose his new name.  It’s still not enough to get a warrant, but when it’s combined with Andy’s statement, and the rest of the circumstantial evidence, Leon might be able to make something of it.”

“Can we take a moment to consider that he might not have adopted the name,” Merlin said, though it looked like the admission pained him.  “I mean, what if he is this Crier from the book?”

“Come on Merlin, you can’t actually tell me you think this is real,” Arthur scoffed.  “Just because a man has a name similar to one in a book doesn’t make it anything but a story.”

“It’s not just the name, it’s the thing about eating joy.  The people around here have been so angry, so hopeless...”  Merlin trailed off.  He was so insistent and earnest in his distress, that Arthur quickly suppresed his first reaction, the desire to mock him.

“We should take a break, you’ve been working for hours and you must be hungry.”

Merlin frowned, an expression that Arthur didn’t like.  “I’m not being crazy, this is something to at least consider.”

“But perhaps Arthur is right, and it is an idea to consider on a full stomach,” Gaius said, pushing back his chair.  “Not to mention that your mother requested help with the stew she’s making for tonight’s dinner.  I move to adjourn.”

“I second,” Morgana said, collecting the dictionaries and notebooks scattered in front of her.  “I need to drive into Lampeter this afternoon anyways.”

“Could I get a ride?” Freya asked.  “I could use a change of scenery.”

“This is your fault,” Morgana teased, stabbing one finger in Arthur’s direction before giving him a grin.  “I chauffeured you once and now everyone thinks I’m a cab.  Of course you’re welcome, I’ll enjoy the company,” she assured Freya, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her out.  “I seriously need some girl time.”

When Hunith walked into the kitchen with her shopping bags she gave Arthur a bright smile that he recognised from her son’s face.  “So glad you’re finished.  There’s real work to be done.”  From anyone else he would have contested the word ‘real’, but for Hunith he held his tongue.

Honestly, Arthur's mind was still stuck on Merlin, and he  couldn’t help but wonder why he had latched on to the Crier story so tightly.  Was the tension in Pumpsaint so great that the easy solution of a noble with a magic sword was too enticing to let go?

“Cut these into cubes of equal size and throw them into the stock pot,” Hunith said, interrupting Arthur's thoughts, and pointing to half a bag of potatoes and a bushel of carrots.  “Then cut the celery and leave it out, it gets added later.”  Then she breezed out, off to attend the rest of her to do list.

“You really are her favourite,” Merlin said.

“As it should be.  I’m easy to love.”

“Don’t go that far.” Merlin elbowed him in the side, then finished putting the potatoes in the sink.  “Your arrogance is showing sire.”

The comfortable sounds of washing and chopping took over the kitchen.

“You’re easy to love too,” Arthur agknowledged.

“Arthur I’m magic.”

Arthur grinned a little when Merlin blurted out his declaration.  “Yes, you are a little bit magic.”

“No like real, proper magic,” Merlin insisted.  “Levitating and fireworks and talking to animals magic.”  There was something about his tone that was very serious.  “I don’t tell people because I know it sounds crazy, but not being able to talk about who I am killed all my relationships to date and I swore I wouldn’t start anything with someone I couldn’t tell again.  So there, now you know my secret.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth Arthur knew they were the wrong ones.  “Come on Merlin, I’m a fairy but I’m not that sort of fairy.”

Merlin’s face crumbled in disappointment.  “You won’t even consider it.  Won’t consider believing me?”  Then Merlin was gone, and with every footstep on the stairs Arthur kicked himself.

He turned back to the vegetables and threw what he had into the pot before following Merlin.  Luckily, the first room at the top of the stairs housed Merlin, who had composed himself in the time it had taken Arthur to catch up.

“Don’t worry, we don’t have to talk about magic again,” Merlin offered.  “I’ll help you with your story, then you’ll head back to London.  If you would refrain from telling my friends about what I said I’d appreciate it.”  

Arthur couldn’t think of a worse ending.  It didn’t come naturally, but perhaps a compromise was in order.  Besides, Merlin was too sensible to really believe in magic.

“Look your magic doesn’t matter to me, what matters to me is who you are.  You can play with a cauldron and dance naked in the hills for all I care, as long as you still come home to me.”

Merlin let out a tight little smile, and Arthur hoped that was a good sign.  “That was both terribly ignorant and quite romantic.  I don’t know what to say.”

“Let me show you how I make magic.”

Then Arthur had Merlin’s face in his hands and was finally giving him a proper kiss.

Merlin was taller, but in Arthur’s mind that only made him more interesting.  Arthur used all the expertise he had, cultivated with a myriad of men and woman whose names he couldn't even remember, and stroked his tongue against  Merlin's.  All that mattered was that Merlin liked it when he fed him his tongue, that Merlin sighed and melted into his body, then gave as good as he got without taking back the weight that Arthur had begun to support.

He broke the kiss to whisper, “We have to be quiet, I don’t know where my Mum is.”

“Well that could be a problem.  Maybe we should take this back to the Arms?” Arthur said teasingly, pushing his thigh between Merlin's legs and starting to unbutton the soft white shirt the bar man was wearing.  “You don’t mind walking across the village with a stiffy do you?  After all I’m sure that if anyone noticed they would keep quiet about it.”

“They’d want to respect our privacy,” Merlin agreed, enthusiastically riding his thigh.

Now shirtless, Merlin sighed so softly that Arthur saw it in the movement of his back rather than hearing it. He was pliable when Arthur backed him across the room, and it was easy work to rest Merlin’s hands on the mantle that was almost shoulder height, as Arthur stepped behind him.  He covered Merlin’s hands with his own, and this time he was close enough to feel the air leaving Merlin.  He calmed himself by running his hands over Merlin’s lightly muscled body, taking note of all the places that made him shudder and twitch.  It soothed the almost frantic edge that had crept into their movements, made it easy and sensual, while Arthur took careful note of all the places he wanted to return with his mouth for more detailed study.  Speaking was harder than it had ever been.

“I like where this is going, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page.  I can’t promise forever.”

When Merlin let go of the mantle and twisted around Arthur saw his eyes for the first time.  The black was so blown out it was startling, before Merlin’s eyes drifted to half mast.  “I’ll take what I can get,” he said, one hand gently caressed the side of his face, the other fingers rubbing across his lips.  Arthur mouthed at the pads of his fingers, then when he gave in to the desire, used his teeth to nip at the meaty bits of Merlin’s hands.  It nearly stunned him when Merlin's response was to whine and rut desperately against him.

“You like that then?  Like when I use my teeth, get a good firm grip on your flesh?  What about if I marked you all over, left messages on your skin so that everyone could see how much fun we’d had?”

The raspy whisper Merlin offered back let him know how affected he was, but was also full of the good humor that had been there since they’d passed each other in the stairwell.  “Never been bitten before, learning all sorts of new things about myself.”

“Would you like to learn new things about yourself on the bed?”

Arthur was sure that a Merlin who wasn’t lust mad would have had a clever response to that, but the Merlin who was fighting through the same mental fog he was just flopped onto the bed, all clumsy knees and elbows.  It was the work of seconds to leave his clothes on the chair beside the bed, and when he heard a contented sigh from below him Arthur tried not to let his ego get the better of him.  The barman already had his hands at his fly, tearing it apart in his hurry to get his trousers off.

“Need some help there?” Arthur laughed.

“Gods this is so much easier when I’m not hard.  Next time let’s get naked earlier.”

For all that he protested this was going to be a short affair, the thought of there being a next time gave a happy flutter to his stomach.  He slid his hands under Merlin’s body to peel his waistband down, but stopped for a quick grope first.  “I knew you had a fantastic arse the first time I saw you clean a table.”  Then the fabric, pants and all, was gone, banished to the floor with a quick flick of a wrist, and Arthur was left with what felt like miles of pale skin.  He had always considered himself a sensuous person, and would usually have taken time to rub and lick all the exposed bits that would make a partner go wild.  But looking at the startling blue of Merlin’s eyes, seeing him lick his lips, all he wanted to do was kiss until they both forgot their names.

There wasn’t a reason not to.

For a moment Arthur didn’t feel like he was in his own body.  The physical sensations, the brush of hair and wiry muscle where Merlin’s thighs were trapped between Arthur’s, the throbbing that started in his belly and pulsed outwards, all of it faded.  And every part of Arthur’s being focused on Merlin.  Merlin whose short uncontrolled panting indicated just how aroused he was.  

Merlin was shaking and panting, and Arthur knew how close he was to giving in and tipping over, knew it just like he knew the sight would be one of the most beautiful things Arthur would ever see.  A small part of himself wished that he could take a picture so he would never lose the sight of Merlin’s face in ecstasy.  A larger part wished this moment could simply never end.  A wild part, the wild part that Arthur hadn’t even known he posessed, wanted to mark Merlin so that no one else could ever see him like this.

When Arthur snapped back to his body it was to the sensation of his teeth in Merlin’s pec, and the whine Merlin made as he came.

“God I’m so sorry.  Did I hurt you?”

Merlin blinked, his mouth fell open and closed.  "Course not you git.  That was fantastic!"

  Arthur realised just how difficult leaving Pumpsaint would be.

 

 

Arthur assumed that being awakened by your new lover’s mother was supposed to have some measure of shame in it.  But the shame was closer to embarrassment, and that was all wrapped in the fuzzy disconnection of a deep nap in his first real bed in days, so when Hunith gently shook him awake he just blinked blearily at her.

“I need help moving some furniture,” she whispered.  “Come give me a hand.”

“I’m so glad she thinks I’m asleep,” Merlin murmured after she left.  “That is a conversation that I want to avoid for as long as possible.”

“Did we close the door?  Please tell me we closed the door.”

Merlin pushed at his hip until he was forced to roll out of the bed.  “At least we had sheets covering the relevant bits, that could have been much worse.  Hurry up, before she comes back to check on why it’s taking you so long.”

Hunith was in the parlour moving the lighter bits of furniture back against the wall.  She gave him a warm smile and stood at one end of a well loved couch.  “This is the one I need help with.  We’re going to move it to the window and you’re going to tell me what your intentions towards my son are.”

Arthur must have blanched, and he could feel whatever had been in his head disappear.  If life had been a movie there would have been the sound of a needle scratching a record.

Hunith burst into laughter, a much more musical affair than the seal barking her son employed.  “I’m sorry Arthur, I was just kidding.  As much as it pains all mothers to admit, I do know that my son is a grown man, and how he wishes to spend his own time is his decision.”  Arthur moved to his place on the other end of the furniture.

“You aren’t worried that I’m going back to London in a few days?”

“I’ll be honest, I would be happier if you were a local boy.  But you’re Merlin’s pick and I have to respect his decision.”  Hunith gave a little grunt as they lowered the couch into its new home, then stood up and brushed imaginary dust off her pants.  “And I have to admit that you are good for him, even if you’re only temporary.  You see my son doesn’t travel much, I think he’s always been a little bit worried about leaving me alone, silly as that is.  He knows these hills inside and out, and he’s made great friends here, but there are other connections to be made in life and he hasn’t found those connections in the valleys.”

“Now if you would be so kind as to move the plates you brought over from the Arms into the dining room, that’s where we’re going to put the food.  Hurry now, the guests will be arriving any minute.”

Arthur laughed at the sudden change in tone, and wondered if that was what having a mother felt like.  Following her orders felt so different than listening to his father, so he proceeded into the kitchen to collect the first stack of flatware.  From the dining room he heard the ruckus of old friends meeting, so he assumed that Hunith had been right in her prediction of guests arriving.  The second stack of plates on the kitchen counter was the pile Merlin had carried and was taller than the first, so Arthur considered transferring them in two trips.  He carefully gripped the bottom plate to test if it would be too heavy.

Arthur gasped.  The entire stack weighed less than his laptop.

He gently lowered them back to the counter, listening carefully for the clink that came when ceramic knocked against itself.  It was hard to hear anything over the pounding in his head, but he was convinced it was there.  He picked up the plate highest on the stack: it had the regular heft he would have expected.  Arthur carefully put it back down and lifted the stack again.  It was still light, but noticeably heavier than before.  He tested his theory by lifting the top two plates then checking the weight of the stack again.  Heavier still.

“Arthur, the plates,” Hunith called from the other room.

“One moment.”  Arthur pulled the plates off the stack and quickly placed them in reverse order in a second pile.  When he tested his newly constructed stack it was too heavy to move in one trip, but he was certain Merlin’s secret would be kept.

Then Arthur Pendragon stood in a tiny kitchen in central Wales and had to rethink everything he knew to be true.

When Merlin thudded down the stairs in a much better state than Arthur had left him in the reporter had already been monopolised by the first guests, namely a woman named Carys who seemed to think that Arthur would be able to get her poetry published.  Merlin winked at him, and disappeared into the kitchen without offering to rescue him.  Arthur mentally amended that thought to highlight the fact that he had disappeared in a metaphorical sense rather than a literal sense.  Now that there was the very real chance that he might actually be able to turn himself invisible he would have to make note when he was being poetic.

The night progressed as Arthur met more locals and was reintroduced to many he’d met a few days earlier.  Either the same bolt of inspiration had struck everyone, or an email had circulated, but it seemed that everyone who had entered a jam or chutney in the WI event brought a jar for him to sample.  Having some experience he knew better than to recreate the Judgment of Paris, so he thanked each woman profusely and told them he would take their jam back to London for Mary Trentworth to try.  Davi Lewys approaching with a jar of pickles and a reckless grin topped the night, and Arthur laughed until he needed to sit down.

Occasionally Arthur would see Merlin out of the corner of his eye as he passed through the room, or met new guests by the door to take their coats and hats.  Every time he did he made sure to catch Arthur’s eye.  Then some conversation would demand his attention, or some task would need to be done, and the gaze would be broken.

He’s really magic.  It’s not a story.  

An older woman entered the room, bright and smiling despite the fact that the wind had torn apart her hair do.  “Helen, glad you could make it!  Sit, sit,” called an old man with a plate piled high with food.  Arthur wondered if food eaten off a magical plate tasted any differently than the rest of what was in the pot, then slid off the couch to give Helen his spot.

The sitting room was now stuffed to the gills, but still new people pressed in.  Elyan and Percival sat in the stairwell, comically large for the tiny space, while out the front door Arthur could see Gwaine sitting on the low wall between the garden and the street.

How had this happened, that in only a few days this village had stopped being foreign?  Even this morning he’d been greeted in the street with nods, as if he’d always belonged there, rather than the object of curiosity that he’d been on the first day.

His musing was broken when a hand slid around his bicep.

“Hello stranger, I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”  A smile just this side of wicked proceeded dark playful eyes.  “Or perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised to find you near Merlin.”

Arthur ignored the jibe.  “And you seem better.  Which is a good thing considering how you looked the last time I saw you.”

“Nonsense, I am never less than my best,” Morgana insisted playfully, pulling him out the back door to where it was quiet.  “Though I must admit that it felt good to have a change of scenery.  I didn’t get to relax on my trip to Cardiff after all.  And Freya started peaking up almost as soon as we were in the car.  The improvement was dramatic, I actually considered leaving her in Lamp.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she decided to go home and get some rest.  Her father was worried, and she thought he would appreciate the sentiment.”

All the flats he’d ever lived at in London had backed onto other buildings, so it felt strange to have such a large open space behind Blue Door.  Morgana led him to a pair of chairs next to a small kitchen garden that looked almost ready to be harvested, and Arthur quickly relaxed into a rickety seat.  The sunset was on the opposite side of the house, but the golden glow it cast on the hills was spectacular.

“And your lovely husband?  I haven’t seen him around, is he here?”

“Yes, somewhere, but maybe not for long.  There’s some kind of a disturbance in Carmarthen and he’s worried he might get called in.”

The last warmth of the day trailed over Arthur’s arms and he nearly sighed in contentment.  “It’s beautiful out here, like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.  I grew up in London and I had no idea how quiet an evening could get before I moved to Pumpsaint.”

“Andy must be in heaven right now,” Arthur said, re-adjusting his position on the chair so he could see further onto the path he assumed was connected to the stables.  “He calls this the magic hour and occasionally abandons me when it hits.”

“Arthur, I hate to tell you this, but your friend is a dick.”  Morgana seemed taken aback when his response was to laugh.  “No really, there’s a reason he gets on so well with Allister Lee.  It’s because they’re both giant cocks.”

“Yes, Andy gets under my skin on a daily basis.  And he says things that make me want to slap him, half of which he actually means and half of which he says just to make people mad.  If he liked the internet he would be a troll.  But he’s never given me trouble about my orientation, and he never treated our women bosses differently than our male bosses.  He’s a jerk, but he’s a jerk that I can count on.”  Morgana raised an eyebrow.  “That doesn’t mean I want to spend time with him.  He is still a jerk.”

Morgana laughed and relaxed back into her chair, just as movement from the riding trail caught Arthur's eye.  For a moment he thought it was an old man, walking slowly and bent over, taking long pauses every few steps.  Then he looked up, and even through the anguish painted all over his face Arthur recognised Bryn Howell’s face.

The startled yelp that Morgana made when he leapt to his feet reminded him she was there.  “Get help,” Arthur said, but his voice sounded far off in his head and he was already running to the gate.  Bryn was less than thirty meters away, but by the time Arthur reached him he had sunk to his knees, so he slowed and tried to remember what little he knew of first aid.  There wasn’t any blood, at least not that he could see, and the fact that Bryn had been walking was a good sign.

“Are you alright?”  Arthur wanted to kick himself for saying something so senseless when Bryn obviously wasn’t alright.

“Why don’t I belong?” Bryn asked, and looking into his wide brown eyes Arthur was struck by how young he was.  “He said I had never belonged until he was my friend, but I don’t think I really belong with him either.  I just fade into the background, invisible in the crowd.”  Bryn’s face broke and thick tears dropped down his face.  “I’ll always be alone, no matter what I do.”

Arthur didn’t know how to respond to that.  Patting him on the back and saying, “There there” probably wasn’t the best response.

“Don’t be silly my boy,” Davi Lewys said, walking past Arthur to wrap an arm around Bryn’s shoulders.  “You’re one of us.  Your great grandfather was born in Pump, and if that doesn’t qualify you to belong then none of us do.  You just need to stop spending so much time in that big old house and start coming into the village for dinner more often.  Now let’s get you on your feet, on three, two, one.”  Then with a surprising amount of strength the old farmer levered him up.  “Now let’s head back to the house.  You need to get some stew in your belly.”

“They belong too.”

“Who belongs?” asked Arthur, the reporter in him unable to stay quiet.

“The Bowens.”  Bryn stood straight up.  “The Bowens!  That was why I came for help.  Arvel took Adam and Freya, I don’t know what for, but he kidnapped them and we need to help!”

Arthur realised that Davi had not come alone when Lancelot whispered, “Go get Leon,” to Morgana, who immediately sprinted back to Blue Door.

Bryn wasn’t finished, clutching at Davi’s arm and shaking while he talked.  “He said that he was building the foundation for our future, and when I went away it was so clear what I needed to do.  He's been coveting the folio for so long that I knew if I took it away he’d leave us alone.  It’s all he talks about some days.  The prophecy this, the prophecy that.  He says when the prophecy comes to pass his power will double.  Double!”  Bryn sucked in air like there wasn’t enough of it in the world.

“Just take a moment son,” Davi soothed.  “You need to slow down.”

“Can’t.  I tried to get the book, to make him diminish.”  Bryn rubbed his eyes, then kept them hidden while he talked.  “That’s what the book does, the part that makes him strong next to the part that makes him weak.  But I tried to get the book, and I wasn’t strong enough to stand against him.  I was strong when I went away, then weak when I came back.”

“No, not so weak that you couldn’t get help,” Arthur found himself saying without realising how true it was until it was out of his mouth.  “I saw how hard it was for you to get this far, so you must not be weak after all.”

Bryn let go of Davi’s arm and lunged for Arthur instead.  “You’ll help her, won’t you?  She always had such kind eyes, and even now her eyes look so human.  I can’t be a hero, but maybe you can.  You can be stronger than I am.”  Then Arthur was supporting most of Bryn’s weight as the farmer’s legs collapsed from under him.

When Hunith, Carys, and Davi led an exhausted Bryn into the house they left a tense circle in the garden.

“They must have been waiting inside when I dropped Freya off.  Damn it!  I just stopped in the lane and let her go in the house alone.”

“No Morgana, this isn’t your fault,” Gwen insisted.

“I, however, am having no trouble figuring out who is to blame,” Gwaine offered.

Merlin was the most visibly affected by the news that his friend had been kidnapped, hugging himself and starting when the screen door banged shut behind his mother.  “How could they be so brazen?  How could Arvel be that crazy without anyone noticing?”

“I think I’m most concerned by the ‘building a foundation for the future’ bit,” Lancelot said.  Half of the circle’s countenance darkened, but Arthur just found himself puzzled.

“Am I missing something?” Elyan asked.  “The fact that he’s a bad motivational speaker doesn’t bother me the way it bothers you.”

“There’s a druidic tradition of human sacrifice to keep foundations stable,” Morgana explained.

“Okay, that’s not good, but it’s for actual foundations right?   Not metaphorical ones.”

“Yes, but do these seem like the actions of a man holding his sanity with both hands?” Gwaine asked.  “Because he seems a little nutty to me.”

Merlin jumped again when the door banged open again, this time letting Leon back outside.

“Any news?” Morgana asked

“The riot in Carmarthen is monopolising the police force, but Barclay is trying to raise a couple of off duty constables.  As soon as he can pull people he’ll send them over here, but I’m to wait until they arrive before I act.”   No one looked happy at the thought of waiting, least of all Leon who was flushed and tense.  “There are a great many people staying with Forrester, and acting against them without back up is not in Adam or Freya’s best interest.”

“You have back up,” Percival said.  “Us.”

“You did hear where we said human sacrifice, right?” Gwaine added.

“Leon we can’t let anything happen to Freya, she’s our friend.”  

Morgana moved over to Gwen’s side and gave her a tight hug.  “Don’t worry, we won’t leave her in that maniac’s hands.”

It was clear that Leon couldn’t keep control for much longer, and Arthur was itching to act.  “Everyone calm down, both sides are right here.  If we rush in without thinking we only cause more problems, but waiting too long puts the Bowens in danger.  We need to find where they’re being kept and observe.  That way when the police arrive we’ll have all the information they need to act without delay.”

“Do we know where they are?” Elyan asked.

Lance nodded, and said, “I’ll put money on them being where they were last night.”

“And I know that property,” Merlin offered.  “I can get us in by the back way, through Caio.”

Leon put his hands up.  “I know you just want to help, but I’m not convinced.  What you’re planning could make a bad situation worse.”

Percival put his finger on the heart of the matter.  “Leon, you would not be able to live with yourself if you didn’t do anything and something bad happened to Adam or Freya.”

It was Gwen who suggested stopping at the Arms first.

“I’m not proposing violence, but if we stop at the Inn first we can arm ourselves.  I’ve got a couple of bats in case things go badly at the pub.”

“You keep weapons, Morgana knows I fit in her boot, should I be concerned?” Gwaine asked, already leading the way.  The forced attempt at levity fell flat, no doubt owing to the thought of an old friend tearfully shoved in someone’s car, but Arthur appreciated the attempt nonetheless.

Between Gwen and Merlin raiding the kitchens for large knives and three old bats, Leon’s asp batton, and Morgana’s ‘aggressive dog spray’ everyone but Arthur managed to arm themselves.  

“This isn’t going to come to violence,” Leon insisted, more for his own peace of mind than for anything, “But I’d still be happier if you had something.”

Merlin popped up from behind the counter he had been searching.  “Cast iron skillet?”

“No.”

“I could probably break into Carrigon’s supply shed and steal you a length of pipe,” Elyan offered.

“No.”

Percival offered his own cricket bat.  “Use this one and I’ll use my fists.”

“No.”

Arthur could hear Gwen make a pleased noise from where she had been searching in the dining room.  “Well it’s not exactly what I had in mind.  And it’s a bit more for show than practical use.  But if they see you with this they’d be crazy to come at you.”  She entered the kitchen holding what looked like a metallic bar.  “It was my father’s, from his younger foolish days.  I keep it above the bar for when tourists want to see a bit of history.”

It wasn’t until she had placed it in his open hand that he realised what it was.

“No way, I want to carry the sword,” Gwaine said, making grabby hands to indicate his very apparent desires.

“No, you claimed a bat.”  Morgana shoved him aside.  “If you didn’t want it you should have waited like the rest of us.”

“If all else fails I can use it as a bludgeoning weapon,” Arthur said, testing an edge to confirm that it wasn’t going to cut anything.  The sword was heavy and awkward, more akin to two pieces of metal poorly welded together than an actual weapon.

“Well it will have to do,” Gwen said, hustling everyone out of her kitchen.

Once outside Merlin took the lead, again showing his knowledge of the area by choosing the best paths and guiding them through Caio forest in the last of the twilight.

Eventually they pased a framilar shepherd’s hut and came to a spot where three paths diverged, so Arthur turned to the others.  “Let’s break up and check out the other paths.  Meet back here when you’re done.”

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw Morgana eye the tentative way Gwen was holding her knife, then silently offer to trade for her pepper spray.  Gwen looked much more relaxed when she had the canister in hand.  Then they were out of sight around the corner, and Merlin was the only one he could hear.  

“Merlin, about your magic...”

Merlin rolled his eyes.  “I don’t think ‘dancing naked in the hills’ as you put it, is going to be very useful in this case.”

“No you nitwit, you forgot to fix the plates you brought over for your mother.”  Arthur sighed.  “If you want an apology for not believing you you’re going to be waiting for a while.  Even you admitted that it sounded crazy.  No, what I wanted to ask was if you had some magic that might help us out here.”

“I don’t know, sometimes my magic acts without me really thinking about it.  It’s mostly uncontrolled, but if I see the opportunity to trip someone I’m taking it.  Honestly, the magic I’m concerned about isn’t mine, but you have to promise that you will <i>never</i> tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.  Swear it Arthur.”

He sighed and wondered if he wanted to keep one more secret about magic.  “I so swear.  Now what is this about?”

“It’s Freya, she’s magic too.  Only her magic is the kind that turns her into a giant cat every full moon.”

Arthur wondered if it was possible to go crazy and not notice it.  Had he gone off the deep end and just wasn’t showing any symptoms yet?

“She’s a were panther?”  Merlin nodded.  “She’s the giant cat we saw Sunday night?”  Another nod.  “But that wasn’t a full moon.  Tonight is a new moon, that’s why it’s going to be a real bugger to move around the woods tonight.”

“Yes, that’s what worries me.  Freya usually locks herself in one of their outbuildings for the full moon, but her change has come without warning for the last few weeks.  Maybe that’s how she’s being affected by the Crier?”

“Merlin your presence proves the existence of magic, but just because you are doesn’t mean everything is.  Until we know otherwise we have to assume that Arvel is just a psychotic man who has read too much Welsh history.”

“Does being this stubborn make your life easier?  You’re the hero with the sword, it might come down to you.”

“Merlin this sword is so dull it couldn’t cut pudding.  If a constable stopped me in the street for carrying a weapon all I would do is show it to them and they’d be so busy laughing I’d be able to walk away without trouble.  It is so blunt that it could be mistaken for a prop sword.  In some of the places I’ve covered this is so inoffensive I could get it through security to take it on a plane.  This is not a weapon that is going to ‘slay’ any monster.”  Arthur slapped the sword blade side down on his hand and wasn’t surprised when it did nothing but leave a pale line on his flesh.

Any thought of heroes and monsters fled his thoughts when they came to the crest.

It wasn’t the field the Marwnadau had gathered in last night, this one was further from the road and higher up, but the setting was still familiar.  Four fires roared, larger than they had been last night, and there were the silhouettes of men feeding the fires to make them broad and fat.  There were a few women, but most of the workers were male and most of them were dedicated to the task of ferrying firewood to the stacks accumulating next to each pyre.  A small dam had been constructed across a slowly moving stream by the simple process of laying trees across it, and in the firelight he could see a couple of women walk over it back to where the cars were parked.  At least Arthur assumed that the lights he saw were cars, it was too dark to see anything properly.

It was, however, light enough to see the men making their way up the crest not twenty meters from where Merlin and Arthur now stood.  Merlin flinched as if to run, but Arthur was fast enough to get a grip on his elbow before that could happen.

“It’s too late to run,” he whispered, “But it’s dark out here, and as long as we don’t act suspiciously they’ll think we’re just two more people gathering wood.  Don’t move and we’ll be fine.”  In the very last of the sun Arthur could see that Merlin didn’t quite believe him.

“Is that something they teach reporters?  How to be so ballsy no one questions you?”

“Merlin I once got into a Finnish biotech company’s shareholder meeting by pretending I had gone outside for a smoke break and gotten locked out.  This is much easier that convincing Joakim the security guard that I’d just left my swipe card and ID inside.”

A few long deep breaths and the wood collectors passed far enough that Arthur could relax again.  He loosened his grip on Merlin’s arm.

“I don’t see Freya or her father.  Maybe we should head back to the others.”

Arthur nodded, slid his hand until it rested on Merlin’s back, and prepared to stumble blindly in the dark.  “I know it would have gotten us caught, but I really wish we had Leon’s flashlight.”

The sound of a match striking then hissing to life close enough to touch almost made Arthur’s heart stop.  

“Oh, you think it was a flashlight that would’ve got you caught.  Maybe it was something else then?” a voice whispered from behind him.

The familiar stench of home rolled cigarettes made Arthurs heart start beating again.

“Christ Andy, did you need to be so dramatic?!  You just cut ten years off my life.  Where have you been?”

Andy took a deep suck on his cigarette, and from the way the coals moved it was clear his hands were shaking.  “I was about to come find you.  In the last twenty minutes we’ve gone from a social group dedicated to the preservation of British values, to a cult that participates in human sacrifice.  Arvel isn’t here yet, but Lee let slip that somebody was going to get their throat slit tonight and I’ve got a feeling it’s not going to be long.  We have to get somewhere with a phone so we call in the big guns.”

“Sometimes I don’t like being right,” Merlin said.  “The times that involve ritual murder are those times.”

“We’ve already called the authorities,” Arthur said, ignoring Merlin’s painful attempt at levity.  “They’ve been stalled but they’ll be here as soon as they can.  Does everyone down there realise what’s going to happen tonight?”

“No, definitely not.  There’s maybe a dozen or so true believers, the rest are just here for the ambience.  But when Arvel arrives that’ll change.  He’s magnetic, what he says goes and it is <i>very</i> hard to say no to him.  Thinking around him is like thinking after three beers.”

“We need to get Freya and Adam before he gets here then,” Merlin grabbed his arm, and the heat of his body pressed itself to Arthur’s side.  “Let’s get the others.”

“Andy have you seen the Bowens?  We think they’re the sacrifice.  They’d need to be close and easily contained, but not underfoot.”

There was a long pause while Andy took another lungful of smoke.

“The cars,” he finally said.  “Most of us walked here, because it took effort to get the cars this far from the road.  There must be some reason they bothered to bring them up at all.”

In the dark Andy couldn’t see him nod, but he did it anyways.  Just like with the story two nights ago it felt <i>good</i> to have direction.

“We’ll meet you there.”

Kneeling just out of the fire light made Arthur’s heartbeat race.  There were three men, young with a certain thuggish air to them, and an older woman who had a hard lived leathery look to her, relaxing near the cars and exchanging casual conversation.

“I see Adam,” Morgana whispered, careful that her voice wouldn’t carry far enough to reveal their position, “But where’s Freya?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Leon answered.  “We’re here to observe until backup arrives, remember?”

“Sure mate, you just keep telling yourself that,” Elyan contributed under his breath.

“I’m sorry Leon, I know you want to do this by the book, but Andy was certain that if the Bowens were here when Arvel got back things would go badly.  He’s been around these people for days, we have to trust his judgment.”

Leon looked resigned, but nodded his acceptance.  There was a small voice in the back of his head that marveled at how everyone was deferring to him.  Arthur was too busy planning how to get Adam out of the car to pay attention.

“Alright, if half of you circle to the North we can rush them.  Hopefully we’ll be fast enough they won’t make any noise.  Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin, you stay back and keep watch.”

The guards were outnumbered two to one, but Arthur’s pessimistic nature was still pleasantly surprised when they managed to overwhelm them without making much noise.

Morgana was cleaning off the grip of her knife which she had cleverly turned around to use as a bludgeoning weapon, while Merlin gave another swing with his bat to ensure the man he’d targeted wouldn’t be getting up soon.  Gwen was the only one who had stayed out of the fight, and when he looked at her she shrugged.  “If I’d had something other than pepper spray I would have attacked too.  These are my friends.”

Gwaine was leaning over the now unconscious woman and rifling through her pockets, then straightened to proudly display a full key ring which he tossed to Arthur.

Now that he was closer he could see two things: that the figure in the front seat was an unconscious Adam and that he wasn’t alone in the car.  In the back foot well a tiny bundle of oversized sweater curled on itself and rocked gently.

“It’s my father, can’t hurt Da.  It’s my father, can’t hurt Da.  It’s my father...”

“Freya,” Merlin whispered gently.  “We’re here to help you.  You and your father are safe now.”

Arthur had a split second to see why Freya was so deeply disturbed before he tackled Merlin away from the door.  The arms that were wrapped around her head were human, but the hands that were connected to them were not.  With an inhuman growl and the flash of animal eyeshine, Freya leapt from the car, tearing through the space Merlin had occupied seconds before.  She made it three paces before fully transforming, and by some miracle the Beast of the Mines managed to bolt into the darkness without encountering a single human that she might have harmed.

“What the fuck was that?” Elyan’s obscenity didn’t seem strong enough, and the others just looked on dumbfounded.

“We’ll talk about this later.  Now you need to carry Adam out of here before anyone notices.”

“What are you going to do?” Merlin asked.

“I’m going to signal Andy that he needs to get out of here before anyone sees that the Bowens are gone.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Arthur was about to decline Merlin’s offer when Lancelot added, “I will as well.”

“I can’t let you have all the fun,” Gwaine added.

“Don’t bother arguing,” Morgana said when she saw the look on his face.  “It will just waste time.  Go now and meet us back at the Armes when you’re done.”

With that, half the party carried the sleeping Adam Bowen off into the darkness.

Arthur assumed that Andy would have positioned himself somewhere near the fire where he could watch for activity by the cars.  That didn’t seem to be the case.  Unfortunately Andy had disappeared.

The party circled the congregation twice before Merlin tugged on his shirt and motioned that they should move far enough away to talk.  

“This is getting us nowhere.  Do you have anything of Andy’s or anything he’s used recently?  I can cast a spell to track him.”

Arthur looked from Merlin over to Lance and Gwaine.

Lancelot shrugged.  “I caught him a couple of years ago.”

Gwaine was equally nonplussed.  “I just watched a girl I went to primary school with turn into a giant were panther.  It would be hard to top that.”  Behind his shoulder a dark form detached itself from a nebulous patch of otherwise unremarkable shadow.

“Perhaps I can reunite you with your colleague,” Arvel offered.

When Andy was thrown to the ground next to the fire he was already sporting another set of bruises, but was still defiant.  He tried to stand again, but was shoved back down by a furious looking Ward.

“Don’t bother mate,” Gwaine offered from where he was sitting in the dust.  “They’ve made it very clear that we’re not allowed on our feet.”

There was a confused murmur among the crowd, before Arvel raised his hands, then a silence fell that anticipated his every word.  It reminded Arthur of the dangerous charisma he’d seen in terrorists and politicians the world over.

“My friends, I had a truly delightful evening planned for you, both as a celebration of recent progress and as a chance to know our newest members more deeply.”  Arvel paused to bask in the cheers that spontaneously erupted from the crowd.

“However our plans have changed.  We were invaded by a band who have dark intent, and who have actively worked to undermine our progress.”

Arthur didn’t know why everyone was so enraptured.  Arvel had seemed so collected when they had met the previous day, but that persona was gone now.  He wasn’t a particularly good speaker, but the throng was falling over themselves with delight at every word he said.  There was one young woman who was actually bouncing as if she were at a rock concert.

“They were not invited!” Another roar from the crowd.  “They do not believe in our principles!  One of them even came in the guise of a friend, but he was never one of us.  He manipulated us, bent on our destruction and his own personal gain.”

With a sudden flash it became clear to Arthur what was happening.  What first appeared to be a strength was in fact a weakness; Arvel didn’t just have the ear of the mob, he needed their approval.  When they clapped and shouted he grew stronger, and he basked in every emotion they gave him.  When they applauded he was momentarily satiated.

And Arthur’s father had views on what should be done with an enemy's weakness.

He surged to his feet.  “This man is a liar!  Every word that slips from his mouth is a falsehood because every word stands on a precept that is not true!”

“He tells you to reject outsiders, that all outsiders are your enemy, but he himself is the greatest outsider.  He has come to your homes and turned you against your neighbours with no care for the kind of village you are, for the kind of village you have always been.  I have only been here for days but already I know more of Pumpsaint than he has learned in a year.

“Enough,” Arvel hissed, drawing a long curved blade that looked more like a sickle than a knife.

“In less than a week I have seen more hospitality and caring than I have seen in my entire life.  I have built a career that exposes corruption and deceit and the darkest human emotions.  But there aren’t lies in Pumpsaint, there aren’t even secrets!  The people of Pump look after each other, they care and they meddle.  They bicker over jam recipes, but when someone says an unkind word about one of their own they rally to her defense.”

The crowd was completely silent.  A few shook their heads like they were waking up.

“You check up on one and another when you've been out of touch for a few days.  You babysit so that your neighbors can have time to recharge.  You feed each other, and laugh together.  And here is what makes Pumpsaint truly unique; you bring others into the fold.  I was a stranger and I was embraced and welcomed without question.  The people here had no reason to take me in, I certainly didn’t go looking for it.  Andy and I were only supposed to be here one night, and we are very good at being emotionally uninvolved with our stories.  But the people here broke down the walls that I had spent years creating, and you did it without even meaning to.  That is what Arvel Forrister is trying to take away from you!”

Merlin struggled to his feet.  “Kyle Wood, I’ve known you for as long as I can remember.  You’ve kept my mother’s car running years after we thought it would give out.  You have been a friend for years, don’t let that change now.”

“Mrs. Tod, you taught my sister all through junior school.  Don’t let this happen!” Lance called from where he was nursing his ankle.

“Rhys, I’ve dated three of your daughters.  What would they say if they knew what you were doing?!”

Rhys laughed and responded in the thickest accent Arthur had ever heard.  “Well Gwaine, they’re all angry as vipers, but I don’t think that's a good reason to let you down.”  The crowd tittered and began to relax.  They had stepped back from the precipice they’d been standing at, and Arthur began to breathe again.

Then the full weight of Arvel Forrister crashed into his side.

He stumbled backwards, helpless in the face of the Crier’s momentum.  And it was clear now that Merlin had been right, that this was more than a man.  His eyes were too big and too dark, and as close as he was now Arthur could see what looked like scales or feathers where his neck met his jaw.

“I would have made it quick little man,” he said, twisting his wrist so the sickle sunk into Arthur’s back just above his kidney.  He tried to push the Crier away, tried to retreat before that sickle did more damage.  For his efforts he was only shoved back further.  Heavy blows rained on his body, though Arthur was grateful none of them were hitting his head.  He knew the others would be right behind him, he only had to defend until they arrived to help.  But the sickle was deadly, and it would only take a second to eviscerate him.  Arthur felt at his hip where the sword had been tucked into his belt and then forgotten.  If nothing else it would slow the sickle down.

“And you would dare bring that silly little toy to attack me?!” Arvel sneered.

Arthur parried two blows from the sickle, but took a fist to the jaw when the blade pulled his weapon to the side.

“You don’t even know how to use it,” Arvel mocked.  “Let me help you.”  With a flick the sword was out of his hand, and a splash said that it had landed in the pool by the temporary damn.

“Oi, you bastard!  Keep your hands off him.”

If Arthur had needed to describe a knight in shining armour, he wouldn’t have described Gwaine.  But there he was, one step behind Lancelot, both with their bats up and ready to swing.  Arvel dropped Arthur on the ground, and from at his feet the Crier looked even less human.

“I would have killed just the two of them, but you intervened so now I have to kill them all.  Do you understand that?  In saving two you have doomed fifty.”

There was no question in his mind that even outnumbered Arvel would win.  Cricket bats would not be enough to stop him.  Arthur crawled to the bank and began desperately fishing through the water.  From behind him the sounds of combat confirmed his belief that all of their best efforts would be useless against the Crier’s experience.

“Damn it, please,” Arthur hissed, feeling the cold water lap at the still seeping back wound.  “Where are you?”

To his relief his hand fell on something metal.

Arthur pulled the sword out of the gravel and silt, and any confusion about how well it fit in his hand was easy to ignore in the struggle out of the water.  It was dark, but recognising which silhouette was Arvel was easy; he was a head taller than the others, and had apparently sprouted wings while Arthur was knee deep in water.  Gwaine was on the ground, curled up on his side.  He prayed that his playful friend was just unconscious, that he wasn’t too late to help, and then he stepped over his body to close the distance.

The sword slid through Arvel Forrester's back as though there was nothing there to stop it.

Some part of Arthur’s brain hadn’t been expecting that.  A piece didn’t think the battered old blade would be up to the task, while the largest share was still planning on threatening him until he gave up.  But it did glide into the Crier’s body, and with Arthur’s momentum behind it, the sword continued until there were only inches between the guard and the beast’s wings.

For a long moment they were frozen like that, Arthur with both hands on the grip, Arvel paused with his back in a shockingly remarkable arch.  He could taste ash, could smell blood.  Then the wind shifted and blew in a fresh clean breeze that was thick with the clean scents that were so prevalent in Pump, and the corruption that came off the body was gone.  Arthur became aware of the weight of the sword then, and when he let it go the Crier slumped to his knees.  Without him blocking his view Arthur could see Lancelot’s dirty bloody face, and his heart jumped into his throat.  His attacker had been seconds away from striking a mortal blow.

Across the valley the echos of sirens signaled that help was coming.

Waking on the fifth day in Pumpsaint was the hardest, but Arthur had known that would be the case before he'd retired the previous night.  Or perhaps the previous morning was more accurate.  Arthur assumed it had been early Wednesday morning before the police in Carmarthen had been through with him, but he had spent the drive back on the phone with Peter repeating most of the details he'd already given the police, and he hadn’t thought to check the time before falling face first into bed.  

The fact that a full seventy percent of his body was covered in bruises and the wound on his back required stitches -- had been very close to hitting a kidney and needing much more -- probably didn't help, but really the biggest issue was the bed.

The beds in the Dolaucothi Arms hated him.

Under a new paradigm where magic was a real thing, Arthur had to assume it was personal.  If he hadn't been so tired he would have tried to con space in Merlin’s bed, but Merlin had been released hours before he was let go.   They wanted to hold people who had killed, even in self defense, for as long as they could.

Arthur had intended to wash and make his way downstairs to avail himself of Pumpsaint’s rumor problem.  Instead he was sitting on his bed shivering and trying to reconcile himself to a world in which he had taken a life.  It had been so easy, so natural, and the memory of the Crier collapsing in front of him caught his breath and made his fists clench.  It was easier to think of him as a monster.  When the police had been questioning him the previous night Arthur kept reminding himself to call him Forrester, to avoid complicating the situation with accusations of insanity.

A soft tap sounded from the door and interrupted his wildly circling thoughts, so he padded over to open it.  Arthur felt his shoulders relaxed when he saw who was on the other side.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Merlin asked, soft and subdued in a way Arthur hadn’t seen before.  “I wanted to let you get as much sleep as possible, but I dropped a stack of plates downstairs and I guessed that would have woken you even if you had been asleep, so I guessed you would be awake, and thought I could come check on you.”

Arthur decided to interrupt before Merlin ran out of breath.  “Have you been taking run on sentence lessons from Gwen?”  Some of the sober look eased off Merlin’s face, and Arthur stepped back to let him into the room.

“So are you alright?”

“Both alright and awake,” Arthur assured automatically. “Speaking of flatware, you have to be more careful if you want to keep your magic a secret.  Leaving spells on floating plates is a good way to get caught.”  

Merlin rolled his eyes and dropped down to sit on the bed.  “I’m glad you’re alright, but I’m a little freaked out.  Can we talk about what happened last night?”

If Arthur could spend the rest of his life not talking about what had happened he would be a happy man.

“I suppose we should, if for no other reason then because the police might want to double check our statements.”  A sudden thought struck him.  “Are Freya and Adam alright?  The police wouldn’t tell me.”

“Yeah, Freya checked in earlier.  She said that the compulsion to change passed quickly, so she’s waiting with her Dad.  The doctor’s don’t want to release him until they know what he was drugged with but she says he’s alright.  He was flirting with the nurses and trying to find a med student for Freya to date when she called, so he’s back to normal.”  

There was a long pause.

“He had wings Merlin, I’m sure of it.  He had wings and he was big and he was going to kill Lancelot.  I had to kill him.”

Merlin reached over to grab Arthur’s hand and tow him to the bed.  He arranged Arthur so as to take the pressure off his back, then kissed him.

“If you hadn’t killed him he would have killed you.  Then he would have killed Lance and Gwaine and half of the rest of my village, and then who knows what else he would have done.  He was crazy, and you saved us all.  You did what needed to be done.”

Arthur sighed.  “I’d been telling myself that for the last hour, but it didn’t sound right until someone else said it.  I still feel like shit.”

“Well that’s good, you look like it too.”

“Careful, even with stitches I can take you in a fight.”

“Back to the topic of monsters with wings, what did you end up telling the police?”

“The truth except the bit with wings.  Somehow when we got to that bit I couldn’t convince myself to sound crazy in front of the detective constable who was interviewing me.”

“Then you will be happy to know that Lance left that part of the story out too.”

They sat for a time, then just before Arthur gave up and acknowledged his hunger Merlin said, “We should head downstairs, Gwen wanted to talk to you.”

Downstairs Gwen was sitting at one of the quiet tables in the corner, trailing her fingers over the sword that was sitting on the table in front of her.

When she saw him she gave a tight smile.

“They brought it back to me this morning.  Apparently with all those witnesses there to see Arvel attack you the Carmarthenshire police decided very quickly not to charge anyone, so they didn’t need to keep any evidence.  And since we had all given statements that you had been carrying my father’s sword they assumed that this belonged here.”  Gwen brought her hand to rest on the grip again, this time thumbing the deeply scratched TL that was on the guard.  “I remember this part, Dad putting his initials on so that it wouldn’t be mistaken for someone else’s sword.  But the rest of it...” Gwen trailed off.

Arthur dragged his eyes away from Gwen’s tired face to take a closer look at the sword.  It was beautiful, sharp and well formed, and what he had thought was a trick of the light was probably a band of gold that ran the length of the blade.  Runes were etched on the flat and the grip was properly wrapped in leather.

“That’s not the sword I was carrying!”

“But it was the sword taken from Arvel Forrester’s back.  I asked for as many details as I could without making the police suspicious, and they have no doubt that his is the weapon that killed him.  It is my father’s sword,” Gwen said, tracing the initials again, “And at the same time it isn’t.  I’m not sure what happened last night, but I have the feeling that I haven’t been told everything.”  Before Arthur could properly protest Gwen held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t lie.  I’m sure you have a good reason, I’m sure that you have the best of intents, but something is being hidden from me, and I know you know some of it.  I’m not going to demand answers, but I am going to ask you to think about why you’re keeping things from me.  Will you promise that?”

Arthur nodded.

“Good.  Then the only question is what should be done with the sword.  I don’t want to keep it, so I think you should have it,” she said with a determined nod.

“But Gwen,” he started to protest.

“No, I’ve made up my mind,” she interrupted.  “You should keep the sword, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Arthur took the sword when she slid it across the table towards him.  Somehow the fact that it fit in his hand like it had been forged for him wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been.

“Thank you Gwen, I’ll keep it safe.  Can I change the subject and ask if they ended up finding those stolen books?”

“Yes.  Gaius convinced one of the police officers he was an expert so they borrowed him to transport the books back to London.  Morgana said that he’ll be a rock star in academic circles,” Gwen laughed.

“Yes, all the librarians will love him.”

Outside, Merlin was standing next to the hired car that Arthur had last seen Andy driving.  He looked smaller than he had in the room, like he had been putting up a brave front for Arthur’s good. Perhaps he always was, always showing the world the cheerful barkeep, dutiful son, or loyal friend so they could take comfort in him.  In a heartbeat Arthur made a decision.

“So I saw that you had packed.  Getting ready to head home?” Merlin said, giving him the same smile that he had the first time they had met in the stairwell.

“Yes, Andy texted me to say that he’d finally finished giving his statement to police so I’m going to pick him up and we’ll drive back to London.  It’s a long haul, and I’d rather start out in the morning, but there’s a lot that needs to be done and I have arrangements to make.”

“Oh, you’re going to be busy then?  I haven’t been to London in ages, and I thought you might be able to give me a tour.  It’s alright if you’re too busy though.  I understand.”

Arthur cut Merlin off, saying,”Oh I’d love to play tour guide, but I’m not going to be in London for long.”

“You have another story brewing?  Off to some exciting foreign location?”

“Actually I’m owed some holiday.  I understand that they’re some beautiful places in central Wales, and since I was too busy working while I was here, I thought I’d come back for a few weeks.”

Merlin’s smile when he realised that Arthur wasn’t going to be gone for long was the best smile Pumpsaint had offered yet, and the kiss that came with it was toe curling.  It was almost worth the embarrassing whoops and applause that his new friends offered from where they had been hiding next to the bar.

 

The end

 

 

 


End file.
